Yeah, Whatever
by NotMarge
Summary: He spent so much of his life pretending nothing mattered. But it did matter. All of it mattered. All the time. Bates Motel, Dylan-centric. Chapter 48 begins a more peaceful span between season 4 and 5. Chapter 71 starts brutal season 5. Chapter 88 begins post series finale.
1. Yeah, Whatever

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

* * *

As Dylan Brian Massett gazed deep into his beautiful bride's beautiful, dark brown eyes and listened to the dour civil ceremonies judge recite his well-worn litany, his mind wandered back to the first time he had seen her.

In retrospect, he was really kind of embarrassed about it all.

The way he acted, the way they had _all_ acted, the first time he had met Emma.

Like dogs fighting over the best bone.

And she was the best bone.

 _-r._

He inwardly snorted, then mentally shook himself a little.

No, he wasn't being that guy anymore.

He didn't have to be.

He was being better.

Still him.

Just . . . a better him.

He was making clear and purposeful decisions to be a better him.

He hadn't always.

Like the day he had met Emma, for instance.

No, not a better Dylan.

Not then.

Not at all.

Knee-deep in _God, these people are pissin' me off, what is wrong with them, okay, fine, I can play this game too. I'll be the asshole unwanted brother._

And he had been.

Slung back in the kitchen chair in that creepy, gothic, museum of a house . . .

 _Anybody but me notice this place stands out like a sore thumb? No? Okay._

. . . munching on some homemade . . .

 _Mmm, you're crazy as hell but these are good._

. . . chocolate chip cookies.

Watching the two Bates nuts hunker down and scour microscopic specs of crud off the lower kitchen you'd have to have x-ray eyes to see.

 _X-Ray Eyes, huh. I had those. Tried to see through girls' panties. What a jip._

But he hadn't needed to have fake oogle eyes to see how pretty Emma had been that first day.

Rolling in with her decorated oxygen tank and her nasal cannula.

Her Language Arts project and her open, welcoming spirit.

And those big, warm, chocolate brown eyes.

Right into the middle of the Bates/Massett Hotel for Freaks, Geeks, and Losers.

God, how embarrassing.

She had been all smiles and easy small talk.

Even with Norma's . . .

 _Jesus, woman, haven't you ever heard of manners?_

. . . shameless delve straight into her personal medical condition.

And they had been all hungry, ravenous animals intent on gorging themselves on Emma's innocent, unblemished, teenage normalcy.

Competing, they had been competing.

Competing for love and attention and a chance to . . .

 _Hey, look at me, pick me, pick me-_

. . . lap at her ankles and piss on her feet like neglected, unhousebroken little puppies.

Miracle she hadn't run screaming into the breezy, White Pine Bay autumn afternoon right then and there.

But she hadn't.

In fact . . .

 _Really, Norma? A real, live girl that close to your precious widdle Norman? Damn, I'm impressed._

And he hadn't really thought much of Emma after that for a while.

After all, he'd had his own shit to deal with.

Norma's.

And Norman's.

 _Jeez, these people are a circus wreck from hell. Why did I bother tracking them down?_

 _Oh, right._

Plus, he was older than her by a good four or five years . . .

 _Not getting me on 'statutory rape/assault/hey, he looked at me funny, get him' charge._

 _Nope._

. . . and clearly crushin' on . . .

 _Norman, really? I mean,_ really _?_

. . . his little brother.

 _Well, half._

And of course . . .

 _Girl like her shouldn't go slumming. Not with someone like me anyway._

. . . she was so far above his decent humanity pay grade it was unreal.

So, he'd moved on and she'd moved on.

And at some point . . .

". . . shall live?"

. . . they'd started moving on together.

Dylan Brian Massett felt a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, felt his eyes crinkle in happiness as he beheld the woman of his dreams.

Standing before him with a big, sweet, toothy smile painting her oval face in a resplendent glow.

And he found absolutely no trouble at all in taking the next step.

Saying the words.

And committing himself completely.

To her.

For the rest of his life.

"I do."

* * *

 **Hello, Bates Motel, oh yeah!**

 **Needless to say, it's awesome!**

 **Anybody interested in some Dylan-centric fic?**

 **Buch of chapters already written and waiting for somebody besides me to enjoy.**

 **Everybody appreciates feedback.**

 **Leave a review if you like.**


	2. The Freakin' Warrior

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Freakin' Warrior

* * *

The room was so still it was like time had stopped.

Not that stupid things like time mattered to him anyway.

All that mattered was that Emma was still alive.

And breathing.

And she was.

Right there in front of him.

In the hospital bed. Tubes and wires hooked up to her.

One was a heart monitor. It beeped rythymically, letting him know she wasn't going into cardiac arrest.

God, he hated Google.

From the second her dad had started talking about lung transplants, Dylan Massett had worn out his data plan ruthlessly reading and rereading information on cystic fibrosis and lung transplants and organ rejection and dietary restrictions and-

And sudden cardiac arrest due to pulmonary venous thrombosis.

Dylan was nothing if not a realist.

And always prepared for the worst case senario.

And, in the case of anything above a seventh grade reading level, an avid fan of online dictionaries.

So he was on a high state of alert.

She _had_ to have the lung transplant.

She had to.

She was young, healthy (save for CF, of course), and strong.

An excellent candidate for a successful double lung transplant.

And of course, the bravest person he had ever known.

And now here she was.

Drugged up with immunosuppressants and painkillers.

Still on oxygen to support her newly transplanted lungs and weakened body.

Chest drains and IVs and catheters and oxygen saturation monitors.

Hospital gowns and pale limp hands and purple shadowed eyes.

It was terrifying for him. He couldn't imagine what it was like for her.

But she was brave and so he was brave.

He and Will had been trading shifts, neither of them wanting her to ever wake up alone even for a second.

Hating to even . . .

 _I've never peed so fast in my life._

. . . take a bathroom break for fear of leaving her side.

But the doctors and nurses said she was doing remarkably well, better than expected.

White blood count low and hemocrit healthy.

X-rays clear and blood pressure normal and temperature average.

Peak flow measurements within normal levels.

Dylan hadn't told anybody but he kept a little notebook in the back pocket of his jeans along with a short pen, recording the little rows of numbers that meant she was okay.

Recovering in fact.

Reassuring himself that there was nothing to worry about.

That she was healing and going to be fine.

That that terrifying moment when her new lungs had stuttered and she had gasped futilely for air.

Pain etching her face, shrieking out of her panicked eyes.

Like the time he had fallen from his buddy's tire swing and had the wind knocked out of him.

Laying on the ground hitching for breath.

Scared and hurting, body screaming for oxygen.

Like that. Only a million times worse, he was sure.

And he had freaked and he didn't know how the doctors and nurses and Will hadn't freaked.

But that was over and she was fine.

So much so that they were letting him and Will stay at her bedside.

And Dylan, to keep himself from going crazy watching the monitors, had visited the gift shop.

And bought a book.

A book.

 _I know, right?_

He could read, he knew how.

But there was always better things to do.

More important things.

More exciting things.

But right now, he was over all that and only wanted Emma to be okay.

Music might keep him from hearing an alarm.

YouTube videos of the latest epic skateboarding fails might distract him from noticing her eyelids moving as she woke up.

And so he read.

He sat and he read and he waited for Emma to wake up.

Because she would.

She would wake up.

And she would be okay.

He believed that.

He _had_ to believe that.

Because she was Emma.

And she was going to be okay.

* * *

". . . mmm . . ."

As alert as he was, he almost missed it.

". . . uhhh . . ."

Her tiny whisper of breath as she swallowed, feeling the discomfort of the tender throat still recovering from the breathing tube.

And he closed the book, jamming down next to his hip as he eagerly leaned forward.

A hopeful smile on his tired face . . .

"Heyyy . . ."

. . . that she was okay and not in too much pain.

He reached out a careful hand to cover hers, hoping it wasn't too cold from holding the book.

She smiled drowsily at him, warm brown eyes moving under purple tinged lids.

And he thought his heart would burst.

It wasn't the first time she had woken up under his watch.

Sometimes it was him and sometimes it was Will.

But whenever it was him, his heart pounded and his stomach fluttered and his brain sighed with relief.

 _You're alright, you're alright, okay, you're alright . . ._

And just like now, nothing else mattered.

Her liquid eyes moved to look at the jug of water on the nightstand and he instantly responded.

"Oh, yeah, here-"

Pouring a half glass into the Styrofoam and setting the pitcher down.

Rising to lean over her, trembling fingers bringing the straw up to her lips.

Other hand gently stroking the top of her head as she swallowed a few sips.

And setting it back down within easy reach when she was done.

He edged back to give her space, smiling like a doofus.

Then she spoke. Her grin broadening as she spoke, voice barely more than a raspy whisper.

"You're reading."

"What? Oh, uh, yeah."

A little embarrassed now. Though there really wasn't a reason to be.

It was Emma after all.

His hands fumbling a little with the paperback.

"Oh, just something to pass the time-"

He kept his voice low and quiet, not wanting to overwhelm her with too much stimulation.

"What is it?"

He shrugged, now more embarrassed to admit . . .

"Oh, uh, _The Counte of Monte Cristo_. I don't know, figured it was time to educate myself or something."

She smiled gently, her beautiful face putting him at ease like it always did.

Even as his heart stammered and his mouth went dry.

 _God, she's so beautiful. How are you be so beautiful in a hospital bed?_

"Will you read to me?"

He glanced down, even more embarrassed now but unable to find a way to . . .

"Yeah, uh, sure."

. . . refuse her.

"Don't ask me any questions though, okay? I need a Wikipedia link to understand all this stuff."

She smiled then, a slightly more forceful exhalation of breath deflating her chest than usual.

The best she could do for a laugh at this point.

And Dylan dropped his eyes away from her beautiful hospital face.

He was glad he was at a good part.

Something positive to encourage her.

He had to back up a few paragraphs to find it again but it was on the same page and it was important so he focused his eyes and found it.

"Life is a storm, my young friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next."

His reading was imperfect and halting. Reading had never been a problem and he wasn't dumb just . . . rusty and too nervous to make fluency his strong suit.

"What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm amd shout as you did in Rome. 'Do your worst, for I will do mine!'"

He thought that part reminded him of Lieutenant Dan shouting at God in _Forrest Gump_ but he didn't want to ruin the moment of the speech for her so he kept going.

"Then the fates will know you as we know you."

He paused, glancing at her and found her smiling softly at him, tears glistening in her deep dark eyes.

And his heart swelled and he knew he had chosen a good part for her.

He read on.

And when he looked up the next time, her eyes were closed and he thought she was asleep again.

Dylan Massett continued to read in what he tried to make a soothing, relaxing tone while still maintaining some interesting tenor to his voice.

When he got to the end of the chapter he stopped.

 _I love you, Emma._

And closed the book.

* * *

 **Okay, so** **, I don't honestly know what book Dylan was reading in that scene. I tried to figure it out but I couldn't. So I gave it my best interpretation.**

 **What do you think?**

 **As you can tell, this'll be one of those bounce around stories. Here and there and everywhere. And you're more than welcome to offer your opinion on that as well. I like opinions. ;)**

 **Most appreciative thanks to solveariddle for graciously reviewing a story that wasn't his/her particular ship. I'm very grateful for the welcome and I hope you enjoy whatever you do choose read.**

 **Also thanks to LOL Guest for making me chuckle. If you decide to stick around, I hope to make my storytelling an enjoyable past time for you. If not, I understand and happy reading of whatever makes you happy.**

 **Thanks to the silent readers as well and I hope you come back for more. :)**


	3. Not Good At Not Caring

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Not Good at Not Caring

* * *

Dylan always had to be the toughest person alive.

Because if anything were tougher than him, it might hurt him.

Self-preservation, that was the name of the game.

When he was a kid, everything hurt.

His skinned knee.

His stomach when he ate too much candy.

The bruise on his face from where his dad backhanded him for knocking over his beer bottle.

His heart every time his mom screamed at him for something.

Dylan Massett hurt alot as a kid.

Growing up he was determined not to let so much hurt him.

He made himself tough.

On the outside

"What's up? Huh? Huh? What?"

So everyone could see not to try to bother him.

Or he would mess them up.

Bad.

And he made himself cold and dead on the inside.

 _I don't care. I don't care._

 _Whatever._

Or tried to.

Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes it didn't.

When Ethan got shot and bled out in front of him, he was scared.

 _Plus, the guy trusted me. Trusted me._

 _He was helping me._

 _Do you know how rare that is?_

 _And I wasn't going to let him down._

 _I wasn't._

When Jodi hopped into bed with him . . .

 _Uh, okay, yeah, let's go._

. . . and then kept him by her side, he felt the beginnings of care.

And then she died.

 _Shit_.

He felt concern for Bradley.

Annoyance for Norman's thickheaded determination to be his disturbed mother's disturbed son.

And outright bafflement and frustration at the two of them together.

 _I love them, okay, but what the hell?_

Shame at himself when he found out . . .

 _Oh my god, what the shit, seriously?_

. . . he was the child of Norma and her brother.

And so much more he felt it would take forever to process.

 _I could keep a therapist in golf clubs for the rest of his life. God._

So he guessed he wasn't that good at not feeling at all.

And then there was Emma.

So beautiful.

So pure.

So clean and fragile and tough and bright.

So everything.

And . . .

 _Oh man._

. . . he refused to admit it for a while, even to himself, but . . .

 _I . . . just . . . I just . . ._

 _I love her._

And that was pretty much it.

* * *

 **There's just such a clear line between pre-Emma Dylan and Emma-Dylan.**

 **That's what my friend DinahRay has said before. Which by the way, sweetie, thank you for reviewing!**


	4. Surviving the Tiger Shark

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Surviving the Tiger Shark

* * *

 _I don't want to be like them anymore, Emma._

 _I want to be free and normal._

 _I want to be okay._

 _And I can't be like that here with them._

It was weird, all evening he had felt like he and Emma were the adults.

Trying to pretend everything was okay. Trying to get through it.

And Norman, his little brother, and Norma, the _actual_ adult of the group, were fighting like little kids.

 _Hey guys, don't make me turn this truck around._

He had talked to Emma beforehand.

"I don't really want to do this but maybe it'll be okay? Like a final goodbye before we go to Seattle? I don't know."

Emma nodded.

"Yeah, well do it and we'll be together and then it'll be over and we can go, okay?"

He nodded, drinking her in like a reviving drought of water in the burning desert of the Bates/Massett Circus of Disturbing Dysfunction.

"Thank you for agreeing to come with me, Emma."

She smiled.

"Of course, Dylan. How bad can it be?"

 _Oh god. Never ask that question with my family._

But she had been there when Norman had gone crazy and catatonic.

Suppprting him and standing by him.

Giving him the courage he needed to not run screaming from the house.

Wheezing and coughing and hacking up thick, yellow phlegm on the bathroom floor.

Scaring him with her fragility.

Impressing him with her resiliency and strength.

Making him want to be more.

Because she was more.

So surely they could make it through one night of Norma's strident, shrill _'I'm fine, we're all fine, everything's is freaking fine'_ falsehood.

And Norman's rigid, brittle _'everything is fine, oh dear, silly mother's at it again'_ delusion that set everybody's teeth on edge.

And every time he started feeling the tidal current of crazy pull him under, Dylan Massett would look over at Emma.

She would smile at him or he would simply catch sight of the line of her cheekbone and feel like he could survive the tiger shark a little while longer.

But that didn't mean he was going to take it all seriously.

"So," Dylan had cleared his throat nonchalantly on the short drive back to shop afterward. "Norman? Really?"

Emma shrugged, slightly sheepish. Playing with their intertwined fingers in the dark.

"I thought he was sweet and vulnerable, not crazy. And he used to be much better."

 _Yeah_ , Dylan thought forlornly. _That's true._

Norman had devolved so badly lately Dylan was genuinely afraid for him and Norma.

But as he had told Emma, he was beginning to believe they could not be helped.

And he just wanted to escape the black hole of their insanity.

And then Norman had gone and thrown up and Norma had turned into the doting mommy all over again.

"Poor thing. He just doesn't like change, you know."

And Dylan had been caught between pity.

 _Jeez, man._

Disgust.

 _Please don't throw up in my truck. I like my truck puke free since I stopped drinking._

And an overwhelming sense of flight instinct.

 _Seattle. Seattle. Two days from now. I'm running like hell. I'm going. We're going._

He could not be grateful enough that Will had agreed to let him come with them.

Live with him and Emma.

Dylan had been planning to somehow afford his own place, maybe find a roommate.

Anything to be close to the woman who wanted him, loved him.

But Will . . .

"Sure you can do that if you prefer. Or you could just stay with us where Emma wants you."

. . . had encouraged a path of less resistance.

"Life doesn't have to be so hard all the time, Dylan. Once you get the right people supporting you and you supporting them, it can actually be quite manageable."

And Dylan had decided he wasn't going to cry in front his girlfriend's . . .

 _Girlfriend. Like, real girlfriend. With flowers and candy and stuff?_

 _I gotta buy Emma flowers._

 _I'll do it when I go get her Tacrolimus 'script filled._

. . . father who had already helped him . . .

"You're too good to be selling pot, Dylan."

. . . so much.

All he had to do was take the risk at trying to improve his life.

So Dylan was going to start his new job of working as the assistant hops distribution manager.

Will was going to start teaching eighteenth century literature again.

And Emma was going to be, for the first time, unleashed on the world.

College.

Even if she was commuting three days a week with her dad.

After she finished her three month mandatory healing process anyway.

Dylan felt hope blossoming inside him.

Not the determined _god, shit has got to get better than this_ hope.

But real hope.

Hope he wanted to grow into a real, stable, normal life.

If he could just . . .

 _Get the hell out of White Pine Bay._

* * *

 **I have heard a very close version of Dylan's Christmas tree shopping speech there in real life.**

 **I teared up then too.**

 **Anyway, thanks to DinahRay again, you sweetie.**

 **And to my silent readers. :)**


	5. Regarding Real Estate

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Regarding Real Estate

* * *

As he searched through the darkness of the Bates Maseulouem of Someone Else's Crap, Dylan Massett focused on his goal.

Finding that kidnapping, raping bastard Shelby and killing him.

And not dying in the process.

And he thought about houses.

Since leaving home at seventeen, he had lived in a lot of places.

Apartments, houses.

Trailers.

Cars.

Tents.

Whatever, wherever he could.

The houses he had grown up in were always cramped and tiny and miserable.

Because everyone inside them was miserable.

The current house he had been occupying with Norma and Norman was huge and impressive.

And miserable.

Because everyone in it was miserable.

Dylan had decided if he lived through this mess, he would eventually try to find something in the middle.

A house that was modern and simple. Clean and uncluttered.

Big enough to breathe in.

With all the occupants living inside happy and content with each other.

He didn't know how to accomplish this insurmountable feat, seeing as how he'd never been truly happy in his entire life.

But there _had_ to be a way, dammit.

So he didn't care how big or small the house was, so long as it was a good place to be.

And didn't have so many dark corners.

Obstructed views.

Hiding places.

Or . . .

 _Oh shit._

. . . murderous cops in it.

* * *

 **And then the gunfight at the OK Corral commenced!**

 **Sorry. ;)**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for so graciously reviewing!**


	6. Practically the Cleavers

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Practically the Cleavers

* * *

"That was nice," Emma commented casually on the short drive back to her dad's apartment behind Artful Artifacts. "Everyone together and getting along. Your mom's a good cook."

He smiled wistfully and nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, it was."

She smiled and blushed a little.

Dylan drove on.

It was the best night with his family he could ever remember.

 _I mean, it was still weird._

Little glitches here and there.

Norman's snipe at Caleb's added toast.

 _Let it go for a little while, Norman, huh? Everybody else seems to have. Even Nor- Mom._

The fact that Caleb was there at all, actually.

And Romero . . .

 _Oh hey. Pot . . . sheriff . . . I have . . . covered up . . . murders with._

. . . and Norma gazing longly at each other over the tasteful flower centerpiece.

And earlier he had watched Caleb, his uncle-father, sit next to Norma, his mother-mother, and sing together . . .

 _Her voice is so pretty. How have I never heard her sing so pretty before?_

. . . as she played the piano.

 _It must have taken so much strength to let him come into her house._

 _To face him._

 _After everything._

 _And now. They look . . . almost . . . happy._

That was definitely weird.

And familial.

Norman, playing the role of spoiled, jealous, slightly homicidal younger brother shouldering in . . .

"You brought him into our house?"

 _Huh? Oh._

"I didn't. She did."

. . . while Dylan was pretending not to have . . .

 _Is this what it's like to have a real family? They can forgive and accept and move on?_

. . . an emotional moment . . .

 _I am not going to bawl like a baby in front of my da- in front of Emma._

. . . with Emma standing right there.

Tears in her eyes too.

And the fact that she was there to witness it all.

 _Hello, Caleb. This is my da-, this is Emma._

 _Emma, this is my da-, uh, Caleb._

And Caleb even acting almost like a dad really.

Watching Emma head off into the kitchen to help Norma.

"So she's the one?"

 _In capital letters, The One? Uhh, I don't know. Maybe. I like her. Alot. She's different._

 _Oh, you mean the money for the lung transplant._

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I totally get it."

 _Yeah, uh, thanks. Well, just don't try to have sex with her._

 _Oh, urgh._

It was weird.

But it was nice.

Probably the one and only time he would ever be able to remember as decent when two or more of the Bates/Massett Clan of Crazy inhabitated the same zipcode.

And relatively easy and pleasant and warm.

Norma, so quietly appreciative, almost shy.

". . . a home where friends could come and go. Stay together and talk . . ."

He had realized she had never had that.

From what he had found out about her childhood, volitile and unpredictable, no one would dare step foot there that didn't have to.

And Dylan's own memories living with Sam, the surly, violent drunk.

Definitely no room for family dinners there.

Just survival of the fittest.

And realized that was why she had bought the motel and this big gothic overlarge house for just her and Norman.

When she could have just used the money to do about anything else.

So she could invite people in. Take care of them.

Be the gracious hostess.

Kind and warm and welcoming.

A misguided attempt maybe. But that's what she had done.

Whether she knew it or not.

And Dylan felt incredibly uncomfortable . . .

 _Norma, that's not how a business works._

. . . and sad . . .

 _But I wish it did. For you._

. . . in a deep way he could not fully express.

But then she smiled and felt like just letting the moment stand as it was.

A good evening. And nice.

Especially once the food got going.

"Oh, nothing fancy. Just threw it together."

 _Uh, no. Macaroni and cheese is what you throw together._

 _This is a family meal._

Complete with coffee and dessert.

And Dylan was happy for her.

Himself.

Them all.

Even Norman.

Sitting like a stump over there.

While Emma . . .

 _Whoa, hey . . ._

. . . laughed and playfully ladled food onto his plate.

Caleb chatted with Romero.

And Norma . . .

 _Louise, right?_

 _Mom._

. . . attended here and there, looking peaceful and happier than Dylan ever remembered her.

"Do you guys do that often? Have family dinners?"

Dylan ghosted a smile at the pretty girl gazing at him in the darkened cab.

He chuckled, a little more humorlessly than he had intended.

"Uh, no. Not exactly."

"Yeah, well, that's one more than I do. Just me and my dad, you know. He's great but I always wondered what it would be like to have people around the table, passing dishes and having different conversations and stuff."

 _Yeah. Me too._

He had been to parties . . .

"I mean, I've been to a couple of parties . . ."

. . . but this had been different.

". . . this was different."

He glanced over at her in pleased surprise.

"What?"

 _That's just what I was thinking._

And grinned.

"Nothing."

When they got to her house, he turned off the car and hopped out.

Opened the door for her.

Helped her down.

And walked her to her door.

"Thank you for coming with me tonight, Emma."

"Yeah, of course. Anytime. Thank you for inviting me."

The moon was bright overhead, pale and cold.

It was getting late.

And she needed to get inside.

But Dylan stood there just a minute longer.

Just looking at her.

Her with those big, deep, dark eyes.

He thought about kissing her.

Thought she would let him.

But for some reason he couldnt quite fathom, he wasn't quite ready.

Instead he just smiled.

Causing her to smile back.

So pretty and innocent and special.

"Goodnight, Emma."

"Goodnight, Dylan."

And then he let her go.

And left alone.

* * *

 **There was so much stuff going on at that dinner party I think they needed a flowchart, ha!**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for your continued support and encouragment. :)**


	7. Rasta, Man

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Rasta, Man

* * *

She was so cute and unbelievable.

Driving her orange VW Bug, crammed full of seedling marajuana plants.

Blasting rasta music and wearing big sunglasses and scarf.

 _What movie are you in?_

 _Anybody who's looking can_ see _you._

But Emma Decody was the definition of 'owning it' as she edged to a stop and shut off her car.

And really cute too.

In her clean cut clothes and unassuming demeanor.

Saving Dylan's ass from a no doubt absolutely irate . . .

". . . front porch of her motel."

. . . Norma.

 _Oh my god, I can't even imagine. Chick would think there was a mountain lion attack and come running_.

It was dangerous, transporting pot.

Emma could get in major trouble.

 _Okay, really, though who's going to run in a teenage girl with no priors-_

 _You've got no priors, right?_

 _\- who's got CF and wears oxygen?_

 _If anybody gets a free pass, it's her._

But the fact remained that . . .

 _Me on the other hand, I would be so screwed._

. . . it was still dangerous.

For him. And Caleb.

". . . stayed at the motel last summer."

And Gunner.

But really, it was still pretty cute.

Especially since she had actually made it.

 _Well, now that my heart attack is over . . ._

". . . uncle. Caleb."

 _. . . I'll make introductions._

She liked the land.

 _Yeah, me too._

And he kind of wanted to show her around . . .

 _Here's where we grow the weed._

 _Here's where I stare at the lake and hills and think about the shitstorm of my life._

. . . but he felt bad about involving her anymore than she already was.

Plus she seemed notably interested in Caleb's presence to an uncomfortable . . .

". . . heard they don't get along."

 _Yeah, uh, yeah._

. . . degree.

And so he tried to send her on her way as soon as possible.

"So, uh, I guess I should get all the pot plants out of your car, huh?"

A light chuckle, slightly nervous twisting and swirling of the scarf.

"Oh, uh, yeah, that would be great."

But still . . .

 _Man, that was so cute._

 _And brave._

"Bye, Dylan."

"Bye, Emma."

* * *

 **Okay, her blaring that rasta music was just the icing on the cake of that scene.**

 **'Dying of CF, but first I am _living this_ experience.'**

 **Awesome.**

 **Anyway, thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing. I really appreciate it! :)**


	8. Gaslighting in the Name of Norman Bates

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Gaslighting In The Name of Norman Bates

* * *

"I'm sorry, Dylan. I am so sorry. I'm sorry for the way you were born. I'm sorry for the way I handled it. I'm sorry for the way I shut you out. It was horrible of me. I am so sorry."

It was all he had ever wanted to hear.

A hearfelt apology for his life, the misery and emptiness of his childhood.

A confession of motherly love and a desire to keep him in her heart.

Norma was his mother and she loved him.

Then.

And he thought that would be enough to survive any future problems they faced.

Move forward.

Starting now.

Move forward.

 _My mom's not perfect. But she loves me. She really loves me._

And at that moment, she truly had.

She had loved him with all the jagged little shards of her fractured heart.

And he had willingly forgiven her for everything she had ever done or would possibly do.

Fought to keep her.

Because his mother finally, _finally_ loved _him_.

Then.

But nothing, _nothing_ , was as important as Norman.

He cam to realize that the times Norma ever really felt true, strong, positive emotion toward him was when he did something that protected or benefitted Norman.

And that her love was temperamental. Inconsistent.

Fragile.

And because he was Dylan and she was his mother, he tried to make that enough.

Because it was all he had.

But it was not enough.

And Norma's supposed love grew stale under the crushing weight of the constantly volatile situations he kept finding them quagmired in.

In the sick, shredded attacks on him anytime he threatened her twisted equilibrium with Norman.

And there did come a day when he had to make a choice.

To be crushed by it .

Or claw his way out of it.

And cast it aside.

So that he could live, survive on.

It was a difficult decision and hurt him very badly.

For a very long time.

* * *

Dylan Massett was at his absolute breaking point.

Practically running at Norman.

Norman who had once been a child just like him.

Manipulated, twisted, used by Norma.

Who had once been a child manipulated and twisted and used by the parents who had messed her up.

And on and on and on since the dawn of time.

 _It has to stop. It has to_ stop _._

 _Now._

Desperation made Dylan feel like punching Norman, knocking him out cold, throwing him in the truck and driving like hell to get away from it all.

But it wouldn't work.

One punch to the head or a million wouldn't work.

Norman was beyond saving, so deep in Norma's manipulative hell.

And his own disturbing psychosis.

 _He's killed people. I really think he's killed people._

 _I mean, I have too but at least I knew when I did it._

But Norman Bates didn't. He had no clue.

He was crazy. Like really badly crazy.

 _He thinks he's her sometimes. He doesn't even know._

But Dylan wasn't crazy.

So long as he got away now.

Running away.

He was running away again, abandoning Norman to the fate of his mother.

Again.

And he felt such huge, crushing guilt . . .

 _But I just can't do it. I just can't._

. . . for it.

So he grabbed his brother.

 _Half, full doesn't matter._

 _Norma as a mother is like a POW camp._

He grabbed his brother who didn't understand . . .

". . . what's happening, what's going on?"

. . . and would never be okay . . .

"You need to check yourself back into Pineview, please. Mom's never going to do it for you."

. . . and hugged him.

Referring to her as 'Mom'. Trying to make that connection with Norman.

So maybe, just maybe, he would listen.

Or Dylan would know, one last time that he had _tried_.

With Norma standing and glowering, threateningly.

And Dylan knew it was the end for them. The last he would ever see them.

Because he just couldn't keep on with the crazy anymore.

He had given it one, last ditch all-out effort . . .

"Dylan, I am your _mother_!"

. . . that had once again gone askew.

"You have never been a real mother to me! _Never_!"

Felt all the emotions, old and new, always an inch below the surface, churning up all over again.

It had made him sick, it had always made him so sick.

 _I don't wanna be sick anymore._

 _I don't want to be messed up._

"Look, I've tried . . ."

And there was Emma's influence edging in on the viscious, spiteful person he used to be.

". . . and I know you've tried to. But, but . . ."

He was so totally done with her. With Norma.

 _It just never ends._

Emma and Will had shown him a different path.

A different life.

Not a perfect one.

But better.

So much better.

And he couldn't have that new life with his old one poisoning it.

". . . I can't _do_ this anymore!"

He couldn't.

He just couldn't.

She wouldn't see how dangerous Norman was to himself and others.

Kept explaining away all the waving red flags that just kept popping up _everywhere_.

He was pretty sure Norman had killed Emma's mother.

Blair Watson.

God knew who else.

But all Norma wanted to do was put away the laundry, make turkey pot pie.

And protect Norman.

At the cost of everything else, every _one_ else.

And Dylan didn't have any proof of anything.

And he was scared.

 _Emma will hate me forever._

 _I can't go back to life without her._

 _I just can't._

 _And I . . . I . . . I don't even know for sure._

 _Coward._

And so he made a desperate, broken decision.

Way down in his sick gut and burntout brain.

His shredded up, blackened, ashy heart.

He was all out of fight. And the only thing left was . . .

"I'm _done_ , Norma."

. . . complete flight.

And she did not care.

His mother did not care about him.

Not really.

Not enough.

All she cared about . . .

"Dylan?"

And he turned.

Expecting nothing at sll.

But vaguely wondering if a simple, sincere, heartfelt 'I'm sorry' would be enough.

Like the one she had offered before, so long ago.

"Please give me the earring."

. . . was Norman.

Always Norman.

Not ever one ounce of anything for him. Truly just him.

Or anyone else.

Logic or reasoning or common sense.

Or human decency.

Ever.

 _Thank you, Norma. For proving I'm right and clearing my conscience._

* * *

It still hurt.

Hell yeah, it did.

His eyes burned and that painful lump in his throat made it hard to swallow.

He fought it all the way back to Emma's house.

Tried to stuff it back inside.

But it was too big, too ugly.

And it hurt too much.

He thought he had it contained until he saw her.

Emma turning to him.

With those big, warm, brown eyes. That ready smile.

Fading as soon as she took in his face.

"Dylan, what happened?"

He didn't answer right away, couldn't.

Only crumpled in a living room chair, face buried in his hands.

And felt her hands on his back, felt her gentle caress.

"It's okay. Hey, it's okay."

Her voice was a whisper but it was enough to batter down his fortress walls.

She was standing and he reached blindly out to her. Wrapping his arms around her middle, his head to the outside of her right hip.

Squeezing his eyes shut as the tears flowed down his cheeks.

He cried silently, as he had done ever since he was a child and Norma yelled at him to shut up and quit acting like a baby.

Emma didn't speak anymore.

Only ran her strong, gentle fingers through his hair over and over, massaging his scalp, his tense neck. Over his ears that always seemed too big.

Offering her simple acceptance and comfort.

Her care without judgment or penalty or parameters.

He hung on to her, clung to her.

With her the only thing in the world holding him together.

And finally feeling the flow of mute outpouring ebb.

Gathering what remained of his willpower and pulling himself away from her patience comfort.

Sitting back, slumped and empty.

As he did so, her kneeling down to be face to face with him.

Her hands on his knees.

Quiet and waiting.

He gazed weakly into her deep brown eyes, so warm and open.

Worried and concerned.

For him.

And he couldn't figure it out.

"Why do you even like me, Emma? I'm . . . nothing. I've done really bad things in my life. I've been a really bad person. My own mother doesn't love me. Not really. Not enough. I thought she did. But . . . I was wrong."

And he couldn't go on.

Dropping his face away from hers, utterly defeated.

And Emma Decody made some sort of noise in her throat.

Reached out.

And cradled his face in her strong, gentle hands.

Tilting it back up her so she could look into his eyes again.

And make him look into hers.

Her voice trembled a little when she spoke, but it was still strong all the same.

Strong and confident and sure.

Softly. But with all the power of a tidal wave of love and acceptance.

"You're not nothing, Dylan. You never were. Your mother's crazy. But you can be okay. You're a good person. I love you."

She smiled then, comforting little smile that almost made him start crying all over again.

Then she kissed him, sweet and light.

And gentle.

And he let her.

And the next day, they left that White Pine Bay and went to Seattle.

* * *

 **Gaslighting - to** **manipulate someone by psychological means into questioning their own sanity.**

 **Being gaslighted sucks and if it's done for long enough by the right person, you never truly get over it. You just learn to fight it inside you all the time.**

 **So there's my knowledge and advice.**

 **Thank you so much, Lana Brown, for your continous encouragement. :)**


	9. Nose Smack

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Nose Smack

* * *

He eventually did drive her crazy.

And it only took a week at home.

Plus the two hospital weeks prior.

Which, as everyone knows, are centuries longer than regular weeks.

But Dylan Massett always managed to wear thin on people.

One way or another.

"Heyyy, what're you doing? Hang on, I can get that for you."

"Dylan."

"What do you need, I'll bring it."

"Dylan."

"Oh, sit back. Here's some water."

"Dylan."

"You feel cold. Let me get you a bl-"

"Dylan!"

"What?"

"I know I had major surgery and got new lungs and am a delicate little flower that could disintegrate at any moment but I'm okay, okay? I'm getting stronger and I need to keep getting stronger. Stop hovering. If I need something I'll ask for it. I've got to challenge myself just a little bit at a time or I'm not going to get better. Okay?"

She looked a little annoyed.

She sounded a little irritated.

Not Norma-screaming-throwing-things-and-hitting-people-Bates annoyed and irritated.

Just normal annoyed and irritated.

Normal.

Which was a relief.

Still, he didn't want to push it.

And she was right.

He needed to treat her like he'd always treated her.

Capable.

Independent.

Emma.

So . . .

"I'm sorry. Hey, would you go outside and change the oil in my truck?"

She squinched up her eyes prettily at him.

"Clever."

Then she kissed him and sent him on his way.

To begin the long and ardous task of retraining himself not to pogo stick whenever she did anything.

* * *

 **Yeah, becauses he cares, right?**

 **Thanks to the silent readers of this story! I hope you are enjoying. :)**


	10. Recreational Ramifications

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Recreational Ramifications

* * *

Coming back from surgery, major surgery was difficult.

Coming back from a double lung transplant, even more so.

But she seemed to be on the mend.

"Dylan. Close the door. And come here."

 _Uhhh . . ._

And there wasn't a part of him that wanted to say 'no'.

Not his mind or his body.

As corny as it sounded, he ached for her. Her kiss, her touch.

Sometimes at night he couldn't sleep because his mind overwhelmed him with feverish, passionate thoughts and visions of the two of them.

It didn't mean he didn't respect her as a person.

It meant he was a living, breathing person.

Like her.

And he always . . .

 _"Don't pressure me. For anything."_

 _Whoa, okay. Cool. Got it._

. . . remembered to be considerate of her as that living, breathing person.

Because one, he loved her, and two, she almost hadn't been.

Living and breathing.

So he always let her take the lead when he was with her.

Just the little bit they allowed themselves due to her condition.

Which was recovering from _surgery_.

"Emma, um . . ."

She promised him they wouldn't go too far.

Get her too excited.

 _What about me? You're so hot and I can only take so much._

Hurt her stapled incisions.

Overtax her healing body.

But Dylan Massett was nothing if not supportive.

Of what Emma wanted and . . . needed.

 _It's . . . theraputic?_

Rehabilitative . . . excerises.

Deep breathing. Stretching.

Muscle . . . strengthening.

And mental, uh, _encouragement_.

He had even looked it up.

'A renewed interest in sexual activities during the recovery process signals a return to health and is regarded as a positive sign of return to overall improved wellbeing.'

 _Okay, well, the_ Internet _said it was okay._

And Emma had said it was okay.

And they were keeping it relatively mild.

To start.

Because the doctor had said four to six weeks from the time she left the hospital.

 _Oh my god, she asked?_

 _Oh my god, she_ asked _._

 _For me._

 _I mean, like, she asked_ because _of me._

And he had blushed and grinned like a dope.

A happy dope.

And tried to sound casual and calm.

"Okay. I'll put it in my phone."

And she had grinned and chuckled at him.

"Okay. Get out."

Gently chiding him and pushing him out the door.

And he went easily enough.

 _She asked._

 _She_ asked _._

Nearly skipping as he went.

 _She asked because of me._

* * *

And then he went out and got tested.

Embarrassing, maybe.

But completely necessary.

Dylan Massett hadn't ever exactly lived what you'd call a purist lifestyle.

Drinking, drugs, crime.

Sex.

Lots of sex.

Whenever, wherever, sure.

That had been his motto.

From age twelve right up until . . . well, just a few months ago, as a matter of fact.

Right up until he'd started thinking there might be a snowball's chance in hell Emma Decody might actually be part of whatever future he had.

Before that, whatever.

Protection or no.

He had never much cared about his own safety anyway.

So as soon she asked him to come to Seattle with her and he had realized he wasn't about to have to wander out into the world alone again . . .

 _Seriously?_

 _. ._ . or return to the Bates/Massett Little Motel of Horrors . . .

 _Me? You want me?_

. . . he didn't even care how long he would he have to wait or under what circumstances.

Because now there was her.

Emma.

He would do anything. Anything for her.

 _She makes me feel . . . like a person._

But he did care about poisoning her, hurting her, damaging her with some sick, slimy venereal disease.

So he went to the clinic in town.

Got tested.

"For everything, right? Even HIV?"

Everything.

And he waited the few days.

Until the test results came back.

And then he returned.

Clean.

"Really? Are you sure? Nothing? I mean, I've done a lot of stuff."

The doctor looked at him quizzically over the top of his bifocals.

"Do you _want_ to have an STD, son?"

Dylan crooked an embarrassed grin, shaking his head.

"No. I just don't want to give . . . anybody else anything."

The older man nodded his head drily.

"Good idea."

Flipped his hunter green folder closed and tucked the other hand in his pocket.

"Alright then."

Dylan stood up off the examination table.

"Thanks."

The doctor nodded again.

"Be safe out there."

He hesitated.

"And, son . . ."

Dylan looked over at him, expecting a lecture.

"I would suggest honesty with the person you're here to get tested for. It's the best policy."

And Dylan's heart dropped.

 _Tell her?_

He knew about Gunner . . .

 _Now I really wish I could have fired him._

. . . the summer before.

So she wasn't a virgin.

But there was her and there was him.

And . . .

 _What if it changes the way she feels about me?_

Then he left.

* * *

"I got tested at the clinic."

He couldn't look at her, he was too embarrassed.

Barely able to draw breath.

But he could still feel her dark eyes prying into his brain.

"You did?"

He shrugged.

Emma waited.

"Yeah, uh, you know, just in case."

He cleared his throat.

"And?"

He scratched his head.

"Clean."

She shrugged, smiling a little.

"Okay, so, that's good."

He nodded, shuffling a little.

"Yeah. And, uh, I thought . . . ahem . . . that I should be honest with you. About what I've done and who I've been with . . ."

 _Oh god, where to begin? The stuff I can remember I guess._

He opened his mouth again, only to have Emma wave him silent.

"Dylan, I don't want to know. I'm, uh, glad that you want to be honest with me but I really don't need to know."

She grinned wanly.

"Unless there's someone about to walk up and slap me in the the face. Then you'd better warn me."

Part of him felt relief and part of him felt guilt.

He opened his mouth.

 _Why am I pushing this?_

 _Because I want to have one good, honest thing in my life._

 _And she's it._

 _And the way I am with her._

"I don't want to lie to you, Emma. I want to have an open and honest relationship with you."

She nodded, smiling gently.

As if she had any inclination regarding what he had been as opposed to what he was now.

"I know. And I appreciate that, Dylan. And if I were asking or if it were an important part of some direct conversation that would be fine . . ."

Her dark eyes randomly traveled the room until they landed on his face.

". . . but it's not and . . . I just really don't want to know."

She paused, as if trying to find a way to make his thick brain understand.

"There's a difference between lying to me and making a fresh start."

She smiled and gestured vaguely.

"This is your fresh start. Take it, okay? If I need to know something in the future, I'll ask. If you need to tell something to help guide someone to make better choices, you tell. Okay?"

He nodded, grateful for his fresh start, grateful to not have to relive all the stupid ass mistakes of his life before her with her.

"Okay."

She grinned.

"Okay."

And that was that.

* * *

 **I really love these two. And I love writing for them.**

 **And I really appreciate, you, Lana Brown, for continuing to read and review. :)**


	11. Guts on the Ground

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Guts on the Ground

* * *

He knew he would never be able to adequately explain to anybody everything involved in watching Norma and Caleb hold each other and cry on that gravel driveway between the worn out old cabin and the worn out old van.

Norma completely unhinged, dressed like some lost, rebellious teenager, crying and clutching at her long lost brother.

The only person in her youth she had been able to depend on.

The man before her on his knees, clinging to her as if she were the only person in the whole world.

Wailing and sobbing.

Begging her forgiveness.

Her big brother.

Who had loved her and worshipped her his entire life.

And raped her.

Again and again.

Eventually creating him.

Dylan.

Unwanted, bastard, incest son.

Who stood, exhausted and numb from a night of absolute . . .

". . . French toast!"

. . . hell.

Watching the scene play out before him.

And he could not think.

Clearly, anyway.

 _This is what I wanted._

 _And now . . . I don't . . . they're so broken._

 _Can they heal?_

 _Can any of us heal?_

 _How do you come back from something like that?_

It made him sad.

And sick.

Hopeful.

Lost.

Confused.

With no idea at all of what might or might not happen next.

His chest swelled and ached, his throat grew sore and raw with barely contained emotion.

His head hurt with the lack of sleep.

His eyeballs pounded and felt huge with pressure and strain.

And it was all he could do to hold back the tears threatening to spill out of them.

As he watched Norma and Caleb . . .

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm sorry!"

. . . let the rest of the world unimportantly spin out around them.

It was beautiful.

Pitiful.

Gut wrenching.

Haunting.

It was . . .

 _I want them to be okay._

 _I want them to stop hurting._

 _I want all of us to be okay._

. . . everything.

 _But how can we be okay again?_

 _Any of us?_

He didn't have an answer.

All he could do . . .

"I'm so sorry!"

. . . was stand there and watch.

". . . sorry!"

 _Oh god._

* * *

 **My husband says Max Theriot screams and whispers with his eyes.**

 **I agree.**

 **Thanks to sweet DinahRay, ever gracious Lana Brown, and WordWeaver81 for so kindly reviewing this story.**


	12. Yes, Please

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Yes, Please

* * *

People kept leaving him.

Dylan kept allowing himself to trust people, hope in them.

And they kept leaving.

Trying to make friends as a child. Unable to with all the moving around they always did.

 _"Mom, I don't want to go!"_

 _"Oh stop whining and get packed!"_

Leaving home at seventeen.

 _Anything's gotta be better than this._

 _Okay, I was wrong. Wow, life does suck._

Trying to come back to Norma.

Finding no one.

Because she moved entire _regions_ without bothering to tell him.

 _What the hell?_

Arizona all the way to _Oregon_.

Caleb, his uncle-father.

Wanted. Warrant.

And of course, the whole _can't-ruin-my-dear-sister-lover's-life-a-second-time_ thing.

And now Emma.

Seattle.

She was going to Seattle.

And leaving him cold and empty again without her warmth.

And he had to let her go.

Because it was what was best for her.

What she needed.

And, if he was really going to care about her over himself, he was going to be nice about it.

Because she was her own person who had to go off and have her own life because she was going to live now.

 _Seattle. Shit._

 _I mean, damn._

 _I mean, good._

He had already said it.

She was being unleashed on the world.

She was going to go out and live.

Because she deserved it.

She deserved everything.

Because she had earned it.

Because she was her.

And he was going to stay.

And make do.

Because he deserved nothing.

And that was okay.

The best respiratory center in the country.

 _Yes. Good._

The best.

Because she deserved the best.

Because she was the best.

He had already tried to detach a little. Let her go.

He didn't want to parasite her.

"I'm going to go back to the farm. Make sure Gunner hasn't burned the place down."

"Are you coming back?"

Do you want me to come back?"

 _I mean, you know it's just me, right?_

Her little smile, as if the answer was obvious.

 _Maybe to you but not to me._

"Come back. Yes, I want you to."

 _Okay. Let's see how long that lasts._

Then he had kissed her on the cheek.

Short and quick.

Thinking it might be the last time.

Because he was leaving.

Just for a few days.

Long enough for her to sit and think and realize the potential the world held for her now that she wasn't dying.

Realize she didn't really need him anymore. Realize she was too good for him, could do better.

Easily.

Part of him wanted to hope she wouldn't.

But he knew it was true.

Not even able to consider something going medically wrong with her.

Notifying Will so he wouldn't think he had just run off and abandoned her.

Feeling the world beginning to weigh down on him again as he drove back to White Pine Bay.

Skipping the town, the damn house and motel.

Driving straight to the farm without making contact with anybody.

Parking the truck.

Staring at the place.

Realizing it wasn't as awesome looking to him anymore.

Not without her, or the thought of her there.

Feeling depressed. Empty.

Ignoring the barn, the plants, everything.

Stomping into the empty cabin, past the wilted wildflowers.

Collapsing onto the creaky cot and just passing out of existence for a little while.

Twelve hours to be exact.

Awakening.

His first thought being of her.

 _Emma._

Knowing he shouldn't bother her.

Knowing he should leave her alone. Let her heal.

That she was going places now.

And that he needed to get out of her way.

Let her go.

But he was weak. And selfish.

And . . .

 _I love her._

. . . totally in love.

 _Barn's still standing. Guess Gunner's doing better than I thought._

 _Wonders never cease. So everything's okay?_

 _Yeah._

 _When are you coming back?_

 _You still want me to?_

 _Yes, of course. We already had this discussion._

Welling happiness.

 _She still wants me._

Visceral relief.

 _Okay. I'll be back in a couple of days._

 _I'll be here. They won't give me back my clothes._

Him grinning, thinking, _neither would I._

Unable to type the joke. Not yet.

 _Take care of yourself. See you soon._

 _Okay. Safe travels._

Bounding up off the cot, leaping to his feet.

Showering.

Grabbing fresh clothes from a bugout bag.

Grabbing a soda and a protein bar from the seven eleven.

Easily ignoring the cigarettes.

And powering back up to Portland.

Only two hours to get back to her.

Grinning most of the way.

Spending a few days with her.

Will giving him some new hope he had never . . .

". . . too good to be selling pot."

. . . considered before.

Hinting it to Emma. Seeing her interest.

Powering back down to White Pine Bay.

Not even getting the pleasure of firing . . .

"Later, dude."

. . . Gunner.

Emma being so sweet again.

Dealing with Chick.

Norma.

Norman.

All the while . . .

 _Emma_.

. . . keeping her face firmly fixed in his mind as a focal point of calmness.

Good decision making.

Sanity.

And now back here on the roof.

That good feeling seeping into him again.

That he got just being around her.

Only to find out _she_ was the one that was going to leave.

Well, not immediately, not now.

She still had another week in the hospital.

Then probably a couple of weeks at home.

But still, she was leaving.

And they could make it work.

He could live in White Pine Bay, drive the five hours and visit her here and there.

Facetime.

Sext eventually. Maybe.

 _I_ _can't_ _sext_ _Emma_.

Until she met somebody in Seattle, somebody closer, somebody better. And it all faded away between them.

 _Shit, that sucks._

But he wasn't going to hold her back.

He wasn't going to weigh her down.

She deserved to be free and unleashed on the world.

And he was steeling himself to smile and wave goodbye and accept life without her.

Because it was what was best for her.

"I was wondering if you would consider coming with us?"

 _What?_

"I mean, I know it's alot to ask, for someone you've only been with a few weeks, well, not even really been with . . ."

He stared at her, pleasant shock and surprise seeping into him through her warm smiling eyes and the gentle touch of her trembling fingers because she was . . .

 _Nervous? About me? Seriously?_

. . . asking a question she didn't know the answer to.

 _You've got the whole world at your fingertips and any guy would love to be near you and you want me?_

And it seemed too good to be true, like the painkillers had gotten her to or something.

 _Me?_

And he found himself smiling

But . . .

"Emma, if you want me to come, I'm going to go with you."

. . . Dylan Massett was never one to let any opportunity pass him by.

 _Oh hell yeah._

He was selfish after all.

And . . .

 _Oh thank god._

. . . he loved Emma Decody.

Had already decided he would do anything for her.

To make her happy.

To take care of her.

She smiled, relief and happiness clear . . .

"Really?"

"Yeah."

. . . on her face.

And he felt mild bewilderment that she would really feel that strongly about him.

 _Seriously?_

 _Oh my god, yes._

And then, just to top it all off, he got to kiss her.

Again.

 _Oh god, yeah. I could get used to this._

 _Like, forever._

* * *

 **Oh these two incite so much hope for healing, don't they?**

 ***sighs happily***

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and your unfailing enthusiasm. So sweet!**


	13. Sleepless Night

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

 **This chapter is rated M for a number of reasons.**

Sleepless Night

* * *

The couch wasn't bad as far as couches go.

He had slept on worse.

And to sleep here on the couch meant several things.

One, he was away from Norma and her ever present World of the Weird dysfunction.

Two, he was away from Norman and _his_ ever present World of the Weird dysfunction.

And three and most important, he was near Emma.

 _Emma._

Dylan contentedly tucked a hand behind his head as he lay on his back, handmade scrap quilt covering him.

And stared up at the ceiling, a small smile on his face.

He loved her.

She completed him.

And not because she was some weird mini version joke of him like in 'Austin Powers'.

Or disturbing like Norma and Norman.

She was just herself.

Stronger, braver, better than he could ever think about being.

He loved her.

She was . . .

"Emma?"

. . . here.

Standing just inside the doorway to the living room.

One hand on the frame.

Looking at him.

"Hey," he murmured into the darkness. "You okay?"

"Yeah," came the quiet reply. "I'm fine."

Letting go of the doorframe, she moved toward him on quiet, quick feet.

He raised up on one elbow.

"What's up?"

Enough light shone in through the window from the streetlight he could see her smiling face, though her dark eyes remained in shadow.

"Me and you."

Reaching him, she knelt and sat astride him on the couch.

"Whoa, Emma, hang on . . ."

Her night shirt was long enough to be modest except she wore no bottoms, only the thin silky fabric of her underwear separating him from-

"Emma, wait-"

She bent low over him, catching his lips with her own.

"Emma, stop," he muttered. "This isn't safe. You could . . . hurt . . . yourself."

Hungrily seeking out his tongue. Drawing back only enough to reply.

"It's okay, Dylan."

Her hands pulling at the drawstring and waistband of his sleep pants.

"Emma-"

And Dylan had never really practiced saying 'no' to women before.

"Emma, wait-"

Bradley Martin had been about the only one.

"It's okay, Dylan. Trust me."

But this was Emma.

And he had waited a long time for her.

And she said it was okay.

And he wanted her so much.

So much.

So he stopped talking.

Sitting up so he could reach her easier.

Hands gliding up her thighs, over her hips.

And skimming her sides under her sleep shirt.

Tossing it away into the dark as they pulled each other closer.

Thanks to the staples, the good doctors had suggested she refrain from wearing a bra for another week or so to keep from rubbing the sensitive incision site.

And her breasts were as perfect as he dreamed they would be.

He lavished attention on them as she moaned and clutched at his head, dug her nails into his scalp.

"Dylan . . . Dylan . . ."

But then her tone changed.

"Dy . . . lan . . ."

Something was going wrong.

He pulled back, looking into her face.

Which was frozen in agony, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

No sound anymore.

Her eyes were bulging, facial muscles twitching.

"Emma!"

He didn't know if he said it or not, shouted or whimpered.

But suddenly the room was filled with light.

Too bright for his eyes, yet he could not close them as Will DeCody stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"What happened?! What have you _done_?!"

As Dylan stared horror-struck at the girl he loved in his lap.

Topless.

Pouring blood down her torso from the stapled red line just below her ribs.

Covering his hands in crimson.

"Dylan! Dylan! What did you _do_?!"

Dylan couldn't answer the distraught father. Only stare helplessly.

At her.

Emma.

Eyes beginning to roll back in her head, tongue lolling out.

Two lung-shaped blotches of blood forming on her chest, those perfect breasts he had been most adamantly enjoying just moments ago.

"I, I, I didn't do anything!" He protested weakly. "I didn't- she said - it would be okay!"

Her upper torso separating from her lower half with a sickening sucking sound.

Completely detaching, beginning to slide to the floor as he desperately struggled to hold her body together.

"Dylan! What have you _done_?!"

Unable to process, unable to think-

 _Nonononono-_

"I- I- I didn't- mean-"

And Dylan jerked out of his dream so hard he nearly fell off the DeCodys' couch.

Sweat pouring, chest gasping for air.

 _Godohgodohgodohgod-_

Scrambling to the lamp beside him.

Nearly knocking it over and breaking it in the process.

The bulb flaring into eye squinting view-

 _Nononono-_

\- an empty room.

No screaming British father.

No dying, mutilated girlfriend.

No pools of thick, spreading blood.

Just Dylan Massett.

In his sleep pants and rumpled shirt.

Blinking terror out of his eyes.

And trying not to throw up.

 _Emma?_

He stood shakily, stomach churning.

Clenching and unclenched clammy fists.

And willing his pounding heart to regulate.

 _It's okay, it's okay, she's okay, it's okay._

He couldn't quite convince himself and he realized he had to pee anyway.

So he crept up the stairs to the bathroom.

The flush seemed louder than usual in the sleeping midnight house.

But when he stepped out of the bathroom, Will Decody was still snoring.

And he was alone.

He walked as quietly as he could down the short hall.

Stopped at Emma's door.

Reminding himself he was not going to wake her up like a child when she needed rest to heal.

Still, he stood where he was.

Listening. Peering in.

Trying to see in the dark.

Make sure she was okay.

The light was dim but he could just make out her form in the narrow bed.

Lying on her back, the only comfortable position for her.

He thought she was breathing.

Couldn't be sure.

And then he heard her.

". . . pie for Thanksgiving. Dylan, get me the pecans . . ."

He grinned.

She was okay.

Alive.

Breathing.

Not in pain.

And dreaming about him.

And Thanksgiving.

 _Okay._

And he finally relaxed.

Leaned his head against the doorframe in weak relief.

 _She's okay._

Then he made himself move.

Quietly descend the staircase.

Turn off the side lamp.

And lay back down on the couch.

Cover up.

And stare at the ceiling.

 _That is the worst sex dream I've ever had._

 _And that includes the one about Carrie Fisher in 'Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back'._

It was a long time before he slept again.

* * *

 **'Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back'. Oh lord, my husband will be so proud of that movie reference when I tell him.**

 ***facepalm***

 **So anyway, thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing. I really hope you're enjoying it. I've got loads of chapters waiting to post.**

 **Thanks also to BateShot39 for adding your support to this tale. :)**


	14. Never Get It Right

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Never Get It Right

* * *

Arguing, they had been arguing.

About Caleb going into town.

Right out in the open where Norma could potentially see him.

Freak out.

And turn on him.

Dylan.

Who had worked so hard to develop a decent relationship with her.

And it was exhausting.

Having to work so hard just to make sure your parent kept loving you enough to be a sort of parent.

Because at any second you could screw up, upset them.

And it would all be undone.

Calculating every word, every action, every outward response.

As much as possible until you snapped, anyway.

Just to be sure nothing sent them over the edge.

It was exhausting.

But he was making it work.

Keeping two Bates nuts in the dark about the presence of Caleb in their general vicinity was even more mentally exhausting.

He had tried send him away.

Several times.

But the dude kept popping up.

Like a bad rash.

And Dylan, starved for parental interest and acceptance all his life, had been weak enough to give up and try and make that work too.

'Cause he did have a heart.

And a conscience.

And he could use the help with barn too.

So . . .

". . . here, okay?"

. . . parameters had been set and everything theoretically should have been okay.

But Caleb Calhoun, true to blood, . . .

"What if Norma had seen you?!"

. . . had gone ahead and done what he had damn well pleased . . .

"What if she had? I'm a human being . . ."

. . . and Dylan Massett was getting sick and tired of juggling all these damn people like a freaking one armed clown on a defunct unicycle.

". . . the one being irrational!"

 _Oh my god, you really are a selfish screwed up prick._

And it was just so much bullshit it made Dylan sick.

". . . the guy who _raped_ her!"

 _I know what I am and I know what you are and I hate it!_

 _I hate this entire thing and I can't never figure out a way to get away from any of it!_

Yelling at each other, staring up at him.

Wishing he had never come here, either of them.

 _Why is everything always shit?!_

And then Caleb had overbalanced like a dumbass.

And fallen.

 _Oh shit, I've killed my dad!_

 _Dammit, is this what I get for standing up for myself?!_

 _Oh god, what the hell?!_

But he wasn't dead.

Cut up, bloody.

But . . .

 _Jesus, look at that hand._

. . . alive.

Most of Dylan was relieved.

Part of him whispered it would have been easier if Caleb _had_ died.

Dylan would have buried him in the woods.

Mourned a little.

Probably gotten drunk.

And then gone about the business of moving on with this screwed up, piece of shit life he could never seem to get right or make any better.

* * *

So Dylan had sewn up the hand.

"You ready?"

 _'Cause I'm not._

It was not the first time he had sewn up a gaping laceration.

"Just do it."

It was just the first time he had sewn up the gaping laceration of his mother-raping . . .

"Was it really like she said it was?"

. . . self-pitying . . .

"Yeah. It was."

. . . screw-up of a bastard . . .

"We were all we had."

. . . uncle-father before.

"Two kids raising ourselves."

And he wanted to know. And he didn't.

"It just . . . happened."

Because part of Caleb's version of the story was still bullshit.

"She was my whole world, my whole life . . ."

And part of the story was real.

". . . and I loved her."

Part of Dylan was glad the needle hurt Caleb like hell.

"You can't help who you love."

Part of him wasn't.

". . . more than anything and I just . . . I just couldn't let her go . . ."

And all of him . . .

". . . myself for it . . ."

. . . felt sick inside because of it.

". . . wish I could say I'm sorry."

So very, very sick.

". . . all I want . . ."

Because none of it was ever going to be any better.

". . . never have another chance."

Ever.

* * *

 **Yeah, honestly for me, Caleb can never talk his way around that one. It's just wrong.**

 **And you may not be able to choose who you love, but you ALWAYS have a choice about what you CHOOSE to do.**

 **So there, rant over.**

 **Anyway, thanks to WordWeaver81, DinahRay, and Lana Brown for continuing to review.**

 **I'll try to tell something less cringe worthy next time, okay, lovelies?**


	15. Road Trip

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Road Trip

* * *

"Seriously? Norma must have freaked!"

Emma shook her head casually, aimlessly playing with the fingers on his right hand with her delicate ones.

"No, actually she was really nice. She made me eat toast and drink orange juice to sober up before I went home."

Dylan shook his head, even as he kept fierce concentration on the traffic ahead of him.

"I can't _believe_ you were stoned!"

Emma grinned, not yet able to laugh with the sensitivity of her staples.

"Gunner said it would be fun!"

Dylan rolled his eyes, shifting smoothly into the left lane as a van veered in from the right to avoid stepping on the brakes too hard and jolting Emma.

"Now I really wish I could have fired him."

Emma squeezed his fingers with her own.

"He didn't know any better. He'd never had a bad trip."

Dylan scoffed.

They were quiet for a moment.

Then Emma spoke dreamily, gaze distant.

"There were just so many _steps_."

Dylan tried to keep a straight face but cracked back up into a chuckle after a second.

"Oh, man, I wish I could have seen it."

Emma smirked at him.

"You saw me on morphine after surgery. That's more hardcore."

He glanced over at her.

" _You're_ hardcore. You're a frickin' warrior."

She beamed and he winked at her.

They drove on in silence for a few minutes.

Dylan was throughly enjoying his time with her.

He felt very lucky to be the one bringing her home from the hospital.

It had been Emma who had suggested it in the first place on one of their many bloodclot defeating walks.

"Hey, I was wondering, uh, if you would be willing to drive me home when they release me next week. Dad needs to get going on renting or selling the house so we can move to Seattle soon."

 _What? Seriously?_

"Yeah, sure."

 _Hell yeah, that'd be great!_

 _Just you and me for a couple of hours in the truck._

 _In traffic._

 _With staples._

 _Oh god._

"Yeah, yeah, no problem."

He had felt anxious while Emma presented the plan to her dad.

"If it's okay, I thought Dylan could drive me back next week. So you could get started on moving us to Seattle."

Will DeCody's sharp blue eyes stayed still in his daughter for a long moment.

She did not squirm, obviously used to this sort of consideration.

Then the man whose daughter had barely skimmed Death on more occasions than he could count slowly swiveled his hawk gaze to Dylan.

Who resolutely stood firm in his stance as the Doer of Whatever Emma Wanted.

And Will, the man who watched over his daughter as closely as he could, fought for her continued existence, and always known someday he would have to let her go, spoke.

"Sounds like a decent plan, then. Dylan, you promise to drive over anyone who gets in your way?"

 _Yeah, I have before._

 _Ouch._

"Dad!"

Will Decody shrugged.

"I just want to make sure you'll be safe."

Dylan nodded, serious as a heart attack.

Or a double lung transplant.

"I'll take good care of her. I promise."

Will Decody looked back and forth between the two of them and without only slightest hints of resignation and more than a little pride in the two young people before him, nodded.

"Well, suppose I'll head on down to the cafeteria and let you two make your plans then."

He kissed his daughter's cheek unashamedly.

Glanced at the still nervous Dylan.

Then with a wan smile, left the room.

"Do you think he's okay?" Dylan asked after a minute.

Emma smiled fondly at the door.

"Yeah. It's a little weird for him for me to depend on someone else but it's good. It means I'm not about to die."

Then at him.

"Plus, he likes you."

He tried to unsuccessfully stamp down a growing smile.

"Really?"

Emma nodded.

"Yeah."

And couldn't resist hedging a bit.

"Well, that's good."

Emma grinned in a secretive way.

"Yeah, yeah it is."

And then they had shared a private smile together.

Maybe a chaste kiss or two.

So now here they were, barreling down city streets at what Dylan was pretty sure was breakneck force.

But what only turned out to be the speed limit.

A little small talk, exchanging glances.

Then Emma spoke.

One, small request.

"Okay, Dylan Massett, if you care about me at all . . ."

 _Yes, I love you._

". . . you will . . ."

 _Anything._

". . . find me a _real_ cheeseburger."

 _Huh?_

"And fries."

 _What?_

"And a coke."

He blinked.

 _Oh. Well, that's an easy one._

"I just need a real cheeseburger. I'm _so_ sick of that hospital food."

Her chauffeur nodded..

 _Your wish is my command._

And then he followed the signs to the nearest Burgerville.

"I'll pay you back," she reassured in a sincere tone that still dumbfounded him.

 _What?_

He didn't even bother to respond, just gave her a look explained there would be no consideration of that statement.

And left her in the truck to procure non hospital sustenance.

Plain cheeseburger, fries, coke.

They sat in the parking lot in the truck as Emma was not yet ready for public engagements.

Coke, icy, cold, and sugary.

Food, hot and juicy.

At her first bite, she sagged with joy.

Eyes slipping closed in rapture, throat eliciting a small sound of visceral appreciation.

And Dylan stared at her, eyebrows slightly raised.

An amused smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Not sure if he should be present to witness . . .

 _Wow. That must be quite a cheeseburger._

 _I wish I was that cheeseburger._

. . . such a private event.

And trying to ignore and subsequently derail the subtle tightening in his groin area.

 _Not now. I have to drive. And be responsible._

 _Oh, she's taking another bite._

Thankfully for him and regretfully for her, Emma could not stomach more than a few bites.

"It's not that big a burger," she complained, sounding slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I wasted your money."

Dylan rolled his eyes, previous amourousness abating.

"Emma, please-"

She shook her head.

"Well, I don't want you to think I plan on being a mooch now that I'm not dying."

Dylan shrugged.

"You're not dying. You can be anything you want to be."

She grinned fondly at him.

"This is burgers, Dylan, not life."

He gave her the most serious look he could muster.

"Burgers _are_ life."

He couldn't hold the fake sterness for more than a few seconds.

And they both laughed together.

"Thank you for being here with me."

He nodded casually.

"My pleasure."

 _I love you._

And then they continued their trek south toward White Pine Bay.

* * *

 **Just a bit of silliness and fun that I hope you enjoy too.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay and Lana Brown for reviewing! :)**


	16. The Empowering of The Shrew

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Empowering/Gentling of The Shrew

* * *

". . . Mom."

It just kind of slipped out.

He hadn't meant for it to.

She had tried to bribe him with . . .

". . . French toast left."

 _Whoa there, Mary Poppins, it's early still._

 _And what do you want? I've been eating cold cereal for months and you never cared._

Confiding in him about her fear of Abernathy and paranoia of Romero and all of humanity in general.

His instinct . . .

 _You with a gun? Oh, hell no._

. . . had been followed closely by his second instinct . . .

 _Might make her happy though._

. . . and in the end he had gotten her what she had asked for.

She had thanked him . . .

 _Aww, she likes me again._

. . . making him want to soften . . .

 _All I had to do was buy her a deadly weapon._

. . . but he had stayed tough and aloof . . .

"Come on, I'll teach you how to shoot."

. . . and against his own murmuring misgivings . . .

 _Norma Bates with a gun, oh boy, we're all in trouble now._

. . . put her in the truck and taken her out to . . .

"Where are we going?"

"Some place we can't get arrested for illegally obtained firearms."

. . . the middle of nowhere to teach her to shoot.

Set up some bottles.

Facing the swamp.

And . . .

"First of all, you need to hold it properly."

. . . begun the task of teaching her how to defend herself with a loaded gun.

She didn't listen, like a hyper little kid with a toy.

Pulled the trigger too fast. While he was still giving instructions.

 _Whoa! Archer! Focus!_

And nearly scared him to death.

"Did I say shoot?!"

And he randomly wondered if this was what parenthood was like.

Her, unconcerned with his upset with her disregard for rules and procedures of . . .

"Eh, I had the bottle in my sights."

. . . proper firearm safety.

And then she asked his about his job and against his better judgment, he had told the truth . . .

". . . pot fields."

. . . and like a little kid . . .

"I don't like that!"

 _I didn't ask, Norma._

. . . had been reprimanded.

"I'm twenty two years old!"

He didn't like her acting all high and mighty.

 _As if you're all perfect. Bullshit._

But he had gotten her back on track . . .

 _Would you stop_ shooting _?!_

. . . mostly.

And then . . .

"Son of a bitch."

She had done it.

Nailed it actually.

Right off the cuff.

 _Damn, that was awesome!_

He guessed it was from all the closeness and bonding.

Her all excited and happy. And not screaming at him.

And it had just . . .

"You called me 'Mom'. You haven't done that in like . . . I don't know how long."

. . . slipped out.

She said she didn't know how long it had been.

He knew.

He had started calling her Norma about six months before he had left home.

Dropping 'Mom' 'cause by that point they had been on the same maturity and intellectual level.

And he couldn't stomach her fake mom-ness away more.

 _Yeah, well . . ._

Nothing had changed.

He had just . . . slipped up.

"Well . . ."

He shrugged it off . . .

". . . loaded gun in your hands, Norma."

. . . like he always did with emotions nowadays.

'Cause even though he was feeling good about her at the moment . . .

 _This is fun. Teaching you how to fire a bullet at another human being._

 _Well, whiskey bottle._

. . . he didn't trust it to last.

He couldn't.

But for now . . .

"You're empty."

. . . he let it ride.

And showed her how to reload.

* * *

 **That was a fun little scene, wasn't it? And still all over the place, right?**

 **Anyway, thanks to Guest Reviewer, WordWeaver81, and Lana Brown for continuing to review.**


	17. Completely FUBAR

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Completely FUBAR

* * *

Which was why he freaked out so bad when Norman caught him and Caleb.

 _Oh god, no._

Chasing him down.

"Norman!"

Tackling him.

"Norman, wait!"

Resorting to desperate, juvenile threats.

". . . sorry for the rest of your life!"

 _She's the only mother I have, Norman!_

 _I'm finally getting her to care about me!_

 _She'll hate me all over again if you tell her!_

Norman hitting the nail directly on the head.

"What are you going to do, huh, _kill_ me?!"

Stopping Dylan dead in his tracks.

 _He's right._

 _What am I going to do?_

 _Nothing._

 _I'm not going kill my own brother. That's crazy._

 _He's my brother._

And short of killing him, there was really nothing Dylan could do to stop Norman from telling Norma about Caleb.

Norman had the upper hand.

And Dylan, as usual, had absolutely nothing.

And he broke down, begged like a helpless child.

Almost crying.

"Please, Norman! Everything I've done with Mom . . . it'll all be destroyed."

 _God, Norman, can't you just share her a little?_

And as Norman Bates . . .

"You've already destroyed it."

. . . walked triumphantly back to his borrowed mother's car . . .

"You've betrayed Mother."

. . . Dylan Massett knew one thing.

"And she has to know."

 _I'm totally screwed._

He crouched on the ground.

"Norman!"

Numb.

"I didn't know what to do!"

And scared.

"Norman, please!"

And lost.

Generally sensing the figure slouching up behind him.

"I'm sorry."

 _Go to Hell, Caleb._

* * *

". . . either she's insane or you are!"

Things just weren't adding up.

He couldn't take it.

All the games and manipulations and twists and turns.

And Dylan had decided he was just going to lay it all out.

". . . just stay out of it!"

 _Hateful little snitch._

* * *

And then after a heartfelt talk with Norma . . .

"I don't want anything to happen to you . . ."

. . . in her soft blue robe, blond hair tied back.

". . . means to me to finally have a family."

Looking for all the world like an actual mom.

His actual mom.

The only mom he had anyway.

Opening up, he was finally opening up.

Being honest.

Vulnerable.

And she hugged him.

 _Mom._

* * *

He tried to make up with Norman.

 _Family forgives and moves on, right?_

". . . might not be pretty."

Trying to protect his little brother.

". . . clear out for a while, I understand."

From the full extent of Norma's probable rage.

". . . try and help if I can."

Norman and his dead animals.

". . . can't ask you to do that."

Reaching out to his big brother.

". . . if you think this is the right thing to do."

Who didn't want him to get hurt.

"Thank you."

* * *

"Who in the end . . .

"Mother!"

. . . got hurt anyway.

Just like all of them.

* * *

He didn't realize . . .

"Did it ever occur to you, Dylan, . . ."

. . . until much later in therapy . . .

"that it's possible Norman might have been manipulating you . . ."

. . . that he had been played . . .

". . . into ruining your relationship with your mother . . ."

. . . by the jealous little freak.

". . . so he could have her all to himself again?"

Definite shaking of the head.

"No. I mean he started out that way but then he told me about those feelings and that he was trying to be better and he even sat with me while I told . . ."

Voice trailing off, wide-eyed stare.

 _Oh my god._

 _That little shit._

"Son of a bitch."

 _No wonder he was so traumatized when she ran off._

 _He thought he had played a big game and lost her._

* * *

 **Good grief, has anybody completely figured all this out yet?**

 **Ugh, gives me a headache.**

 **Still fun though. ;)**

 **Thanks to DinahRay and my Mystery Guest for reviewing.**


	18. Savior

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Savior

* * *

He was scared and alone and had no idea what to do make any of it better or even survive.

Aside from knocking the shit out of his rampaging baby brother to save his own ass getting beat, that was.

 _What the hell, Norman-_

All the adults were gone . . .

 _Hey, I'm an adult._

. . . Norma shattering a mirror and running off like a bat out of hell . . .

 _I just don't feel like it right now._

. . . and now it was just him and Norman.

Whom Dylan was pretty sure was having a breakdown.

And he was afraid.

 _Oh my god, I should have just stayed in South Dakota and starved-_

So afraid.

And then she arrived.

Emma, who was younger. By a good five or six years.

Emma, who should be weaker than anyone else because of her CF.

"I'm worried about Norman!"

But was somehow stronger.

"How can I help?"

Though just as compassionate and worried and uncertain as anyone could be.

"I can stay here with you . . . shouldn't be alone with all this . . ."

 _Really? Cause Norma didn't seem to care if I'm alone with all this._

And Dylan Massett felt like hugging her.

". . . can't ask you to do that."

 _I'm fine, I'm fine, shit, I'm not fine-_

And bad for needing her.

"You're not asking, I'm offering."

And just grateful to God there was someone else stable enough to stand with him through this nightmare.

He didn't know at the time that she always would be there for him.

As long as she could be.

 _Thank you, Emma._

* * *

They cleaned up the kitchen together.

Which looked like the Tazmanian Devil had powered through it.

 _Pretty good description actually. Jesus, I was so scared._

"Norman really did all this?"

Emma with the broom, sweeping up shards of shattered china, ceramics, and glass.

"Yeah, it was . . .

 _The most terrifying experience of my adult life so far. You don't expect that from your brother._

". . . weird. He just went crazy."

Dylan with the garbage can, gingerly discarding bigger chunks.

"Wow. And that's when you punched him?"

"I had to. He was hitting me. He's skinny but he's got crazy strength when he freaks out."

Emma's lovely, pale face was drawn and pinched and Dylan worried he'd said too much.

"I'm, I'm sorry," he stammered apologetically. "I shouldn't have told you."

 _Keep it inside. Shut up. Nobody cares about your problems. They can't fix them anyway._

Emma shook her head.

"No, it's okay. I wanted to know. I'm just glad you're okay."

Dylan felt too exhausted to act tough.

 _I wouldn't say that._

"I'm glad you're here, Emma."

She reached out and squeezed his hand, pouring warmth and strength into him.

"Me too."

Then before he could a wrap his arms around her in a desperate, tight hug she probably wouldn't want from someone like him, Dylan Massett grabbed the dustpan.

And knelt down on the floor for Emma to sweep the broken dishes into it.

* * *

 **I have lived this experience and worse as a child. Many times. I grew up with holes punched in the walls and door frames splintered. Abusive drunks with loaded guns. Stepmoms with black eyes and knocked out teeth that nobody ever talked about. And worse.**

 **And after a while, everybody else left and there was only me to deal with it alone.**

 **But I'm an adult now and not a victim and I'm in charge of my life and I don't live like that anymore.**

 **And my children have never and will never know what it is like to suffer that constant fear.**

 **And I'm happy now too. Relaxed and happy and cleaned out.**

 **So, yeah, whatever. Right, Dylan? ;)**

 **Thanks so much to DinahRay and Lana Brown for reviewing. I'm so glad you're enjoying. And yes, I will be writing about the pregnancy and the baby and everything, you've got it! :D**


	19. Dylan and Emma's First Sleepover

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Dylan and Emma's First Sleepover

* * *

So Norma was gone.

After some frantic searching, they had found Norman in the basement with the damn bird.

Put him to bed like a wandering child.

Again.

And now it was a creepy, quiet three a.m. in the Bates House of Bastards, Bitches, and Bonkers.

But at the moment, all that paled in comparison.

Because there was an elephant in the room.

A huge, massive elephant.

And it was standing on Emma DeCody's chest.

And because there was no one else readily available . . .

" My dad usually has the honors."

. . . she was drafting Dylan to take it off.

"Yeah, sure, just tell me what to do."

As much as he could.

". . . like this."

 _Um, okay._

The bad thing about it was he was worried he would hurt her.

The good thing was . . .

 _Oops, boob._

 _Oops, boob again._

. . . it was so bizarre it temporarily drove all thoughts of the awful evening's events from his stressed out head.

 _And now I'm sitting on her._

 _Man, these boobs are everywhere._

 _And she's smiling._

"Harder. You've got to do it harder."

 _That's what she s- never mind._

 _Man, this is weird._

And then all the bizarre, weird boy-thoughts vanished from his head when she started coughing and rolled to the side as he slid out . . .

 _Wrong phrase. Wrong phrase._

. . . of the way.

Hacking up a chest full of thick, yellow phelgm.

And Dylan Massett himself couldn't breathe.

 _This is how you live? All the time?_

And then she did the worst thing yet.

She downplayed her own, very real, very serious problems.

And apologized.

"Sorry . . . phelgm on the floor . . ."

As if she were bothering him when . . .

 _Emma, no . . ._

". . . never should have let you come here tonight."

 _I didn't realize._

But she, the girl who couldn't breathe, only wanted to help.

Be a part of things.

Not be shut out.

 _Like me._

It wasn't love at first sight or anything stupid like that.

It was just him seeing her more clearly.

And realizing . . .

 _Wow._

. . . she was someone truly special.

 _Emma . . ._

And also realizing . . .

 _You're . . . amazing._

. . . that she was more than he could ever imagine.

 _And with Norman._

 _Norman._

 _Okay then._

* * *

Then he put her to sleep in his bed.

"Dylan, you don't have to do this."

 _It's not a horror movie, Emma, I just want . . ._

"No, seriously, just rest for a little while, okay? It's clean and all. I just want . . ."

 _To keep you safe._

 _As far away from my psychotic brother as possible._

". . . you to rest. I'm going to the living room. If I need you, I promise I'll come get you, okay? And you can text me from here if you need anything."

She acquiesced, snuggling down in his single bed with a little smile.

"I can see why you like this room. It's cozy. Simple. The bed in the corner. It feels safe."

He smiled, not really sure what to say . . .

 _Nowhere in this house is safe, Emma. I've learned that._

. . . without making everything worse.

Then she grinned and she was so beautiful.

He'd always known she was . . .

 _"Norman! There's a girl here for you!"_

 _. . ._ cute. Pretty.

Attractive.

But now with the events of the night and her genuine kindness for him and her soothing nature . . .

". . . okay, Dylan?"

. . . he knew she was more.

Inside and outside.

Amd that drew him.

But she was with Norman.

 _Why the hell why-_

. . . and there were lines brothers didn't cross.

So he hovered near the door and simply smiled back just a little.

"Thank you for the bed, Dylan."

And she sent it back to him stronger.

"I'll try not to drool on your pillow."

And very Emma.

A relatively weak attempt to lighten the seriousness of the insane evening but Dylan lo-liked her anyway that much more for it.

"Okay, I'll, uh, see you in the morning."

She obviously wasn't letting him get away that easily.

"Unless you need me tonight."

He couldn't even summon anything inappropriate at the moment.

He was just so damn grateful she was there.

"Okay. Goodnight, Emma."

"Goodnight, Dylan."

* * *

 **Thanks to DinahRay and Lana Brown and WordWeaver81 for reviewing, you guys are sweet.**

 **And look, I'm going in order! With this section anyway. :)**


	20. French Toast

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

French Toast

* * *

And there _were_ blackberries.

On the bottom shelf.

There were blackberries in the fridge and French toast in the skillet.

And his eighteen year old brother in the kitchen at three a.m.

Dressed in their mother's blue embroidered robe.

And he was talking like her and moving like her.

He thought he _was_ her.

And Dylan was freaking right the hell out.

 _Maybe I'm in a dream._

"Norman's sleeping."

 _Uh, okay. Am I?_

But he didn't seemed to be sleeping, though he wished he was and he definitely . . .

 _Emma? Emma, stay asleep, okay?_

 _I don't, I don't want you to see this._

. . . hoped Emma would stay upstairs.

He had already tried to keep her away from this insanity . . .

"Emma! Go back in the office! Now!"

. . . afraid Norma or Norman would inadvertently hurt her . . .

"Go back!"

. . . during the beginnings of this bout of chaos.

But he she had returned on her own, trekking all the way up to the house.

And he had been too selfish to send her away . . .

 _Oh nothing, just a good old round of World's Shittiest Family again. We're world champions._

. . . again.

And if she came downstairs now, Norman . . .

 _"Oh you sweet girl. Are you feeling ill?"_

 _Chair pulled out, seat patted comfortingly._

 _"Come over here and sit down. I've got just the thing to help you clear those poor lungs."_

 _Vague gesture, light and relaxed because Norma/Norman could handle anything._

 _"Dylan dear, get the honey bourbon from the cabinet and the lemon out of the fridge."_

 _"Now, Emma, sweetie, now don't take this as consent to drink alcohol. You're too young yet. This is strictly medicinal."_

 _"Okay. Thank you, Mother Norman."_

. . . might just try to help her.

 _Oh god. I'm going crazy too._

He had been so hopeful when he had woken to the clatterings in the kitchen.

 _Norma?_

And then confused as he had beheld . . .

 _What the hell?_

. . . the insane scene before him.

And now, because he couldn't think of a single other thing to do but run screaming into the night . . .

 _At least I'm still wearing my jacket. What do they call that, fight or flight instinct?_

. . . and he didn't want to leave Emma or wake her up and freak her out . . .

 _Hey, I was thinking we could go to France. You wanna go to France?_

. . . he pretended to go upstairs . . .

 _France, yeah, France seems good._

 _We could, uh, eat French toast there._

 _Shit._

. . . to wake up his brother . . .

 _Maybe Antarctica._

. . . who was actually in the kitchen.

 _That's further._

In his mother's robe.

"Dylan, do you want orange juice?"

Making French toast . . .

"Uh, yes, please."

. . . and fresh squeezed orange juice.

* * *

 **This is hands down my favorite hallucinating Norman scene in the whole show. It's so innocent and domestic it just gives you chills.**

 **And then I had to go and drag poor Emma into to it too, right?**

 **But hopeful you laughed a little too.**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 for reviewing. *proffers French Toast***


	21. The Green-Eyed Monster

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Green Eyed Monster

* * *

Caressing his unlined, unworried, sleeping forehead.

Carefully brushing and smoothing back the tangled, matted hair.

With what were probably soft, gentle fingers.

Gazing down with kind, caring eyes.

And Dylan watched them for a long, yearning moment.

Emma and Norman.

The tough, fragile girl.

And the mentally disturbed boy.

 _He thought he was her._

 _Norma._

Dylan still didn't know how he had managed to convince Norman go back to bed after the whole French toast thing.

"Hey, uh, I'll clean this up, why don't you go upstairs and relax?"

"Oh, that's sweet of you, Dylan. Thank you."

A quick peck on the . . .

 _Oh no, please don't._

 _Ew._

. . . cheek.

And that had been that.

He had found him later in her bed, snoring quietly.

Norma's robe neatly on the hook.

Dressed in his own clothes.

As if it had all been a hallucination in _Dylan's_ head.

 _I'm not crazy, he's crazy._

 _I'm not crazy, he's crazy._

Instead of Norman's.

And Dylan had returned to the armchair.

And stared at the ceiling for the reminder of the night.

After dutifully cleaning up the kitchen.

 _He thought he was her._

And checking on Emma.

Who had never stirred in his room.

And now . . .

 _I bet that feels nice._

. . . he was awkwardly intruding . . .

 _How does he always inspire such care and kindness?_

. . . on a sweet, private moment in which . . .

 _I'm not crazy._

. . . Emma Decody quietly cared for . . .

 _And nobody ever fusses over me._

. . . her sleeping boyfriend.

All tuckered out after a long night of china destruction and bird mutilation and French Toast making and identity shifting.

 _I guess that's nice for him though._

And before Dylan could become bitter and resentful in any regard to Emma at all . . .

"Is he still sleeping?"

. . . he broke the moment with the obvious.

"I hope he had a restful night."

 _Smh. Sure._

* * *

 **Poor Dylan, right? Eh, well, it gets better, sweetie.**

 **Thanks to sweet DinahRay for reviewing!**


	22. Him

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Him

* * *

Dylan Massett hunched in the semi dark over his nearly empty bottle of Coors.

His face was moist with tears and he kept sniffling back the snot that always came with them.

 _Oh god, I am._

 _I am him._

And he flashed it back.

Norman, laying on the floor beat up and bleeding.

By him.

Dylan.

Who had attacked him.

Well, they had attacked each other.

"Don't call her a whore!"

But Norman was the only one who got seriously busted up.

Bloody nose and black eye.

As opposed to the small scratch on Dylan's hand from the broken dish.

And Dylan was . . .

 _Oh god._

. . . not well.

 _I'm such a loser._

 _A loser who can't get away from these people 'cause I'm nothing without them._

 _And nothing with them._

 _Fantastic._

Throat choked and working. Eyes welling stupidly.

 _I hate this._

 _I've only been back a few days._

 _And everything's the same._

 _Them and me._

 _I just wanted to not fight for a while._

 _I have always fought in this family._

 _Fought to keep from getting the shit kicked out of me by Sam._

 _Fought for love and attention from Norma._

 _Fought to get away._

 _I was hungry and homeless and jobless and worthless in South Dakota._

 _Stupid crew boss laid me off._

 _Kicked out of my crap apartment after Skip and Kelly ran off together with the rent money._

 _Strung out on whatever I could get to take the pain away._

 _And now where am I?_

 _Hell._

 _I mean, White Pine Bay._

 _Shit._

 _Well, at least there's food here._

 _A roof._

 _Norma._

 _And Norman._

 _God, what did she do to that kid?_

 _He's like a little pod person freak._

 _And she's like this screaming, whiny, unstable psycho-bitch._

 _So exactly the same._

 _God, I should have stayed in South Dakota and starved._

 _And since when the hell did Norman start swinging meat tenderizers at people's heads?_

"I told you not to do that!"

And flashed it further back.

 _"See what you made me do, you little shit?!"_

 _"I'm sorry, Dad!"_

 _"I'm not your dad, you little brat! Your mom whored around with some guy and then trapped me into taking care of her!"_

 _"I'm sor-"_

 _"Stop saying you're sorry, you little shit, and leave me alone!"_

Dylan chugged another swig and pressed his thick, sick forehead to the bar miserably.

 _Oh god, I am him._

* * *

 **I really think that's what that entire scene was about besides Norman's homicidal tendencies. Dylan seemed so hurt and offended, there just had to be more than just, 'waah, waah, don't hit me!'**

 **What's your opinion?**

 **Thanks to DinahRay (not yet, sweetie but he will get there) and Lana Brown for reviewing. I really appreciate you, you're very kind.**


	23. Try Something New

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Try Something New

* * *

"It was really annoying," Dylan vented later on to Emma.

Trying not to get too worked up and blow everything out of proportion.

Like Norma would.

"She's there in that house she likes with a guy who's really nice to her and Norman's getting help where he needs to be."

She had been so content and happy there.

Norma.

Sitting on the couch with him, listening to him talk about his visit with Norman . . .

". . . more at peace . . ."

. . . at the nuthou-, er, mental health facility.

He had even made sure to be noncombative in regard . . .

"Why do you think that is?"

. . . to certain truths . . .

 _Because he's away from the codependency of your relationship. He can start to heal._

. . . he believed about Norman's recovery.

"Uh, I don't know-"

And Norma was happy.

". . . best news I could ever hear, Dylan."

 _Even better than the fact that Emma's CF seems to be gone? Or that I'm bet- never mind._

 _Norman, yes, Norman._

 _Okay, new topic. Something non-Norman related. It'll be good for you._

"How's the husband?"

Bashful grin.

". . . very good."

Girlish giggle.

 _Aww, she's getting the nice sex._

 _Ew, uh, yay._

Which then devolved into her delving . . .

"You didn't tell Norman, did you?"

. . . head first right back into dysfunction.

 _Dammit._

Like she couldn't even help herself.

And all the nice, normal, happy, hopeful feelings had been fractured.

Just like that.

 _Norma. You're the adult. Be the adult and live your life. Stop covering up. There's nothing to cover up!_

"And she just won't let either one of them be okay."

Always the same thing.

". . . very close and he's fragile."

He had briefly debated letting it slide.

"Hm . . ."

But Emma had been teaching him through example to be more open and honest.

Not to hide.

And not to enable hiding.

Not out of hate or vindictiveness.

But out of a desire to be real.

And help heal.

 _That could be a support group motto._

 _Be real. Help heal._

 _The Decody Way._

 _We could make t-shirts._

So he had taken a deep breath.

And the plunge.

"Did it ever occur to you that if you keep treating people like they're fragile, it keeps them from ever getting stronger?"

Noncombative. Nonthreatening.

Caring.

But honest.

And open.

To help heal.

She had cooled instantaneously, eyes frosting over.

Walls going up.

"Did you become a philosopher in Portland?"

Irritation rising. Brain working.

 _What would Emma do?_

 _Try again._

So he did.

Using Emma, beautiful, wonderful, amazing Emma as the beacon they could both look to.

Because that's what he did.

". . . really impressed by the way Emma just dives into things-"

And all of Norma Louise Bates had brittled right up and shut right down.

"Yeah, sure. Glad Emma's got it down."

 _I am Norma Louise Bates, Eternal Broken Victim._

 _Remember when I was miserable and hurt my entire life always and forever? Remember?_

 _Oh for god sakes._

Dylan floundered, the wheels of frustration spinning inside him.

"I just . . . she . . ."

He felt guilty saying it. Like he wasn't supporting his mother in her hour of darkest need.

 _It's_ always _her hour of darkest need._

"I know her life was terrible, worse than I could ever imagine trying to survive."

He paused.

"But it's not _now_."

He worked his jaw, trying to figure out her brain.

"It's like she doesn't want to get better and be happy. Like she wants to stay sick and broken."

He risked a glance at Emma.

Whose dark eyes were, as always, filled with care and compassion for him.

"She's like a child. Always sulking and pouting over the past instead of moving on."

He shook his head helplessly.

"I just . . . I just wish she could be okay."

He shrugged.

"Doesn't she _deserve_ it after everything she's been through?"

Emma smiled sadly.

Playing with his fingers, rubbing her own comfortingly against his.

"Yeah, she does, Dylan. But she has to try. She has to work at it. Nobody can make her."

He was quiet then.

Sad for his mother. Frustrated for her.

Wondering if she'd ever change.

Admitting to himself that he didn't think she would.

It had however, sitting there with the now closed-off Lady of Perpetual Bates/Calhoun Tragedy and Sorrow, made it easier to tell her the second thing he had come to tell her.

"I'm going to be moving to Seattle with Emma and her dad."

Norma hadn't liked it.

"It's going to be okay, Norma. I promise."

But she hadn't fought much.

Hardly at all.

"Okay."

Certainly not as much as she would have if it had been Norman . . .

 _I'm still surprised he ever actually went to public school._

 _Kindergarten must have been hell._

 _Eighth grade too._

 _No, be nice._

. . . who had announced his intentions to leave.

And they had hugged.

She had kissed his cheek.

Invited him to dinner.

 _Yes, I will come and eat food with you, Norma._

And then he had fled down those steps.

As politely as possible.

Jumped in his truck.

 _God, I could use a smoke._

And driven straight to Emma.

For strength. For encouragement.

For that happy, healthy, normal breath of fresh air of her he was beginning to crave more than anything in the world.

And now, hours later, after more boxing had been accomplished . . .

 _One time, I had to pack my stuff in pillowcases. Long story._

. . . more tea had been drunk . . .

 _Still hot flavored liquid._

 _And that's okay. It isn't a_ _lways about me._

. . . and various other errands check off the list . . .

 _Forwarding address?_

 _Uh, Not The Hell Here, Washington._

 _I mean, Seattle._

. . . here they were.

Kicked back on her bed like they did almost everyday now.

Her head on his outstretched knee.

Fingers interwined.

Talking, coming down from the day.

"I'm just proud of you," Emma reassured him. "You're going to be okay."

"Because of you," he replied, looking right at her.

Open and honest.

She glanced over at him and he felt just a little self conscious.

But he was already in it now and he wanted her to understand anyway.

So he went for it.

"I feel . . . stronger because of you. More balanced. I feel like I can think. Like I can try."

He paused, struggling with emotions that were too big for words.

"I feel like I can see light when I'm with you."

She stared at him, nostrils flaring as she breathed without tubes.

"You saved me."

She cleared her throat carefully but her voice was still husky when she spoke.

"Dylan, you always wanted to be okay. I could tell."

"Yeah," he admitted. "But I just never knew how until I met you."

She grinned a little mischievously.

"You make me sound a like a flowchart."

 _Well, I do have an arrow that points to you._

 _But we won't talk about that right now._

 _You're still healing._

So he tried to think of something better to say.

 _I love you, Emma._

* * *

 **This show is a testament to personal evolution. I love Dylan.**

 **Have I said?**

 **;)**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and Lana Brown (yes, 'him' was Sam, you got it) for reviewing.**


	24. Darkness and Light

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Darkness and Light

* * *

There was life before Emma.

And there was life after her.

There was darkness.

And there was light.

But like a dying man digging his way out of his own grave, the light didn't burst forth all at once.

But in little spurts of hope and levity.

A glimpse of the sun.

A breath of fresh air.

Then the tunnel walls would cave in around him again.

And he would keep tunneling up, up, up.

Sometimes sideways, or even on a few terrifying occasions, get discombobulated, twisted up, turned around and tunnel back down

Before righting himself.

That was the way it was for him.

And he had lived lost in darkness so long that sometimes, especially at first, he didn't recognize the light when he saw it.

Didn't notice it for what it was.

Because he was too busy lost in the darkness.

And sometimes he didn't think the air and light were for him really because he had learned to manage in the suffocating, cloying darkness.

But the more he tunneled and closer he got to the light and air and hope and life, the more he wanted it.

Sought it.

Craved it.

That was the way it was for Dylan Massett.

On his journey to Emma Decody.

* * *

 **Just a nice little blurb I hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks to the silent readers out there. You're super sweet!**


	25. Emma

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Emma

* * *

So Caleb was probably leaving after this run.

Which sucked.

Because even though he was a broken shell of a person, he was still . . .

 _The only dad I have._

 _Who actually wants me._

 _Likes me._

 _Doesn't treat me like crap._

And Dylan was a little bummed. A little morose.

But least they were going to do this thing for Emma first.

Emma.

Emma and her open, warm heart.

Her bright eyes. Her ready smile.

Caring nature.

Emma.

So fragile. But tougher than anyone else alive.

And not out of spite or defiance or hate.

Just because she was.

Just the thought of her made him feel happier, more relaxed.

Hopeful.

And he wanted to hear her voice.

So he called her.

Pacing aimlessly, trying to keep warm on the cold pavement of the truckstop parking lot.

 _Canada. Damn._

He called her.

Emma.

"Hello, Dylan."

 _Mm, I like the way that sounds._

He grinned, not worried about anything for the moment.

 _She answered._

 _She answered_ quick.

He momentarily drifted back.

 _"Hello?"_

 _"Hi, Dylan?"_

 _"Yeah?"_

 _"This is Emma . . . DeCody."_

 _"Oh, hi. Is everything okay?"_

 _"Yeah, I, uh, just wanted to thank you . . . for getting all the, uh, pot plants out of my car the other day."_

 _"Oh yeah. Sure. Thanks for bringing them. Uh, how did you get my number?"_

 _"Oh. I, uh, just took it off of Norman's phone. I hope that's okay."_

 _"Oh, yeah. Sure. Of course."_

 _"Well, okay. Have a good day, Dylan.."_

 _"Yeah, you too, Emma."_

 _"Bye."_

 _"Bye."_

"Helloo, Emma."

 _I like the way_ that _sounds._

He felt silly and free.

Like a person.

Because of her.

Emma.

"I like how we're being all formal with each other now."

 _I thought I was flirting. Mi'lady._

Like the weight of the world wasn't weighing on his shoulders all the time.

Like he didn't have to be a big, tough badass all the time.

"I just wanted to check in on you, see how you were feeling."

 _Woman warrior._

"Are you cured?"

 _Am I joking with her about her terminal disease?_

"Yeah, yeah, no more CF."

 _Yes, I am. Because she likes being treated normal._

 _And I'm going to make it better._

They chatted, her talking about her dad letting her be at the motel office.

 _God, how depressing._

But knowing it was better for her than sitting at home waiting to die.

Him teasing her.

". . . sitting in that office."

Her clearly delighted.

 _Oh man, this is a great feeling._

Her asking about him.

"Will you be home later?"

 _Mm, miss me?_

Him skimming the truth.

" . . . on the road a few days . . . delivery . . . extra money . . ."

 _I'm going to buy you some new lungs, baby. Sound good?_

She was curious, of course.

". . . the farm?"

Because she cared.

"Yeah . . ."

And he . . .

". . . expensive . . ."

. . . had to tell her a baldfaced lie.

". . . barn and, uh, stuff."

But it was necessary. So she wouldn't know.

So she wouldn't owe him for anything. Ever.

". . . beautiful little spot, Dylan."

"Yeah, it is."

 _Not as beautiful as you though._

 _Smoosh._

"Anyways, um . . ."

 _Where was I?_

". . . just call and tell you that . . ."

 _'Cause that's what I do now. I call and I tell you stuff._

". . . need me for anything . . ."

 _Do you need me, Emma?_

" . . . am . . ."

 _Always here for you. No matter what. I promise._

". . . completely unavailable."

 _There. Joke._

And she liked it.

 _Yay._

Even responded with one of her own.

". . . not have an emergency while you're gone . . ."

 _Haha, yeah, don't do that, okay?_

And then he was casual.

"Perfect."

Cool.

"Alright, take care of youself."

Light.

"I'll . . ."

 _Miss you._

". . . see you in a couple of days."

Because he knew he had to let her go.

"Okay."

And he really didn't want to.

He could literally just stay on the phone with her all day.

Talking.

Joking.

Bantering.

Listening to her laugh.

Emma _._

"Safe travels."

 _Oh, that's cute._

"Thanks . . ."

 _Stay_.

". . . bye."

"Bye."

He lowered the phone, heart and mind, for just a second, lighter than it had been.

The chill air warmer around him.

 _Oh man, that was great._

It was lighthearted and fun and easy.

It was clean and innocent and relaxing.

It had made him happy.

She made him happy.

 _She makes me happy._

 _And I'm going to make her happy._

 _I'm going to get that money and she's going to get the lung transplant and be okay._

 _And then she can go and do whatever she wants in life._

 _And not die._

Yeah, that's just what he was going to do.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah, yeah. Just about."

 _Emma._

* * *

 **Such a good scene when they're on the phone. Dylan forgets he's a grown, serious guy and goes total cinnamon roll.**

 **Thanks to the ever loyal Lana Brown and WordWeaver81. You're very kind. :)**


	26. That Girl

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

That Girl

* * *

"I would like to say you're insane for doing this but I see what you mean about that girl."

 _That girl._

 _Emma_.

Dylan tried to stay cool.

"She's not my girlfriend."

Girlfriend.

Emma as his girlfriend.

 _Shut up._

Dylan Massett didn't have girlfriends.

He had girls that he thought were hot and then slept with that hung around for a while and then faded away.

But he didn't have 'girlfriends'.

Flowers and candy and cards and calls.

And cares and concerns and emotions and feelings.

Birthdays and anniversaries.

And holidays and groceries and cuddling.

It wasn't that he didn't want them.

It was just that he didn't really think about them in regard to the females he came in contact with.

It just didn't seem to come up.

Other, ahem, _things_ came up.

Alot.

Dylan was a _guy_.

"It's not like that."

 _It's not like that._

 _I care about her._

 _As a friend._

But everyday life with vacations and to-do lists and sweet pecks on the cheek.

Long conversations and shy glances and waiting for that 'special moment' just never seemed to be part of the math.

He didn't really worry about it.

Long term committed stuff was something other people did.

With other people.

Dylan Massett was, by necesitative default, a here and now and move on kind of guy.

And it worked fine for all involved.

Don't hurt them.

Enjoy them.

Don't get too attached.

So, no.

Emma Decody was not his girlfriend.

She didn't fit any girl he had ever been with.

She was too good for him.

And . . .

 _Seriously?_

. . . she was . . .

". . . seeing my brother."

Norman.

 _God._

"At least I think they are."

Truthfully, he didn't really know.

It was weird.

They never seemed to be together in any way.

They never kissed. They never touched.

Never showed any affection.

No secret looks.

No flying pheremones.

Just two people mutually inhabiting the same breathing space.

Norman didn't seem particularly interested in Emma . . .

 _Stupid._

. . . probably because he was always too consumed with everything about 'Mother'.

 _Those two are just unhealthy._

And Emma didn't seem that particularly interested in Norman either, really.

They hadn't sat together at Norma's dinner the other night.

Had barely spoken.

Emma had sat next to Dylan.

Talked to Dylan.

Laughed with Dylan.

Playfully ladled noodles onto _Dylan's_ plate, not Norman's.

And he had been just fine and content to let her do so.

Playing it casual.

Putting her in a box of 'friend'.

Acquintance.

Whatever.

Loving the happiness he felt just having her near.

And paying attention to him.

 _Smoosh._

 _Stop it._

But he wasn't going to cross that line into thinking things that weren't real.

Like Emma.

Liking him.

That way.

 _What, am I, twelve?_

 _No, I was never like this when I was twelve._

 _I don't think I've ever been like this._

 _Who could risk it?_

And so, until somebody said something . . .

 _At least they haven't had sex yet, that's pretty clear._

 _Oh, erg._

. . . he wasn't laying a finger on her.

But he was . . .

"Thanks for coming with, man."

. . . gunrunning to Canada with Caleb to get money to get Emma a new set of lungs.

 _And then you can kick CF's ass. I hope._

* * *

 **Dylan usually doesn't say much so sometimes I gotta figure it out.**

 **How did I do?**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing, WordWeaver81 amd Lana Brown!**


	27. Haunted

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

 ***Warning: 'M' for dark themes, direct mentions of rape.***

Haunted

* * *

There was this thing.

He didn't know if it was a memory or a drunk dream.

Being sick, being so very sick.

Right after Norma had screamed that her brother was his dad.

Right after she had screamed, shrieked that Caleb had raped her.

And he had shouted back that she was a liar.

And Norman had attacked him, beaten the shit out of him.

And they had all stopped dead in their tracks.

That Caleb was Dylan's dad.

That Dylan was an incest born mutant freak.

He had staggered up off the kitchen floor.

Blood painting his face, nose swollen and thick.

He had stared without blinking.

Wide eyed and overwhelmed with the sick, rotting, putrid revulsion of it all.

And they had stared.

Norma and Norman.

They had stared.

And he had stared back.

Until he had turned and in a zombie stupor, fled their presence.

 _I'm a_ _rape._

 _Rape and incest and how am I supposed to live now?_

He decided he wouldn't.

He numbly piloted the big double cab truck he had been so proud to pay cash for down the road.

Never quite veering far enough onto the shoulder to plunge off a cliff.

Never far enough into the median to smash head first into a semi.

And so he eventually arrived at and stopped at a bar.

Went in with his wallet full of pot cash.

And drank until he lost awareness of himself.

But even in his inebriated haze, he heard them.

Words echoing in his ears.

Refusing to die away.

 _". . . Norma's brother."_

 _". . . know how Norma is."_

 _". . . just wants to talk with you."_

 _". . . no one to protect me!"_

 _". . . anything to get your way!"_

 _". . . gotten my way . . . your damn mother!"_

And he saw horror blurs.

Caleb holding Norma down as he thrusted, tearing her apart. A sick, hungry look on his face.

Norma screaming, crying. Helpless.

Unable to stop her attacker, unable to break free.

He had never been there, never even seen someone get raped in real life.

But he saw it in his mind's eye all the same.

"No! Stop! Please stop!"

Sometimes the bell curved and suddenly _he_ was Caleb.

Looking down on Norma's tear streaked face.

As he violated her in the worst way.

As she screamed and cried and begged and pleaded.

Him, teeth gritted, lips drawn back in a sick, horrible grin.

Unable to quit, unable to stop.

Or even close his eyes against the horror he was doing to her.

And then it all faded.

And he felt cold.

And hot.

Thick.

Sick.

Movement.

A distant voice, vaguely familiar . . .

"Dylan? Dylan, wake up!"

. . . one he should know.

But couldn't place in quagmire of his drowning haze.

Then it all faded out again.

Until he heard the thought . . .

 _I'm all wrapped up like a burrito._

. . . connected to his body.

And then a different sensation.

Softness. Gentleness.

Warmth.

Soothing caress.

And a voice.

Norma's voice.

His mother's voice.

Alway so harsh and short and dismissive of him.

Now he knew why.

 _I'm a rape bastard._

 _An unforgivable monster._

 _All the time._

 _Never see me._

 _Just Caleb._

 _What he did._

 _In my face._

But now, his mother's voice.

Different.

Quiet. Calm.

"I never wanted you, Dylan. I hated even the thought of you. But I couldn't kill you. I didn't have any money for an abortion. But I wanted to. I was too scared to do it by myself. So I ran away and had you. And every time I looked at you or thought of you all I could think of was him. Then I had Norman so I could have a child I liked. So I could have someone to love me. So I could pretend he was my only son and you didn't exist."

The voice paused and Dylan thought it had gone away.

"And I hated you, Dylan. I hated you so much."

But he was wrong.

"And I'm sorry for that. You should have had a mother who could love you."

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be her."

And the voice did stop and the gentle touch went away and he was alone in the void of space.

Warm and sick.

And all wrapped up.

* * *

In a thick, suffocating wet blanket of his existence he could never manage to fight his way free of.

The Bates nuts and their pure, unblemished, incest-free DNA.

Trying to act all normal and not crazy . . .

". . . be strong and put this behind you."

. . . as hell.

 _Yeah, like you have, right, Norma? How's that working out for you?_

And he just knew she was full of shit and the dream voice had been real.

Especially . . .

"Why did you have me, Norma? _Why?_ "

. . . when he confronted her in the kitchen later.

 _Come on, Norma. Tell me you wanted to love me. Tell me you wanted to make something good out of something bad._

 _I dare you._

 _Tell me something. Anything._

And she couldn't even answer.

Could barely look at him.

And he knew . . .

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

. . . there was no reason for him to be living and breathing and existing on the planet at all.

But he went on doing so.

Just the same.

At least for a while longer.

* * *

 **This an extension of the episode in season two when Emma, Norman, and Norma care for Dylan in the motel room after he finds out Caleb is his dad.**

 **It made me sick to write it.**

 **And I apologize for you having to read it.**

 **But it's part of Dylan. And I can't let it eat him alive alone.**

 **Emma will make it better in the next chapter, if that helps.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing. Keep holding for some more sweet stuff, it's on its way!**


	28. Washed Clean

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Washed Clean

* * *

He could have just dropped the money off with Will and gone about his way.

It was actually have been easier and quicker.

She would have gotten more rest that way.

But Dylan Massett was selfish.

He wanted to see her.

Hear her voice.

Feel the warmth of her presence.

Reassure himself that he doing something good in his life.

Helping Emma.

Because he was feeling very low.

Very empty.

And very lonely.

And he felt that just seeing her would make it better.

So, with permission from Will, Dylan Massett crept up the stairs to her room.

And found her.

Curled peacefully on her side in a quiet, still room.

A room decorated with the random items of a teenage girl.

A room that was lived in. Occupied.

Unlike the Bates Museum of Stolen Time and Frozen Ambiance.

This room was a room you could breathe in.

So long as Emma's oxygen tank helped her.

And there she was.

Resting.

So peacefully.

He woke her up.

"Emma?"

Felt bad about it.

Until she called his name . . .

"Dylan?"

 _Smoosh._

. . . and sat up and smiled.

She was so fresh and clean and pure that he just started rambling . . .

". . . were sleeping . . ."

 _Duh._

. . . and apologizing . . .

". . . sorry . . ."

. . . because he suddenly felt fumbly and stupid and like a total . . .

 _Dope._

. . . dumbass for coming up to her room like Prince Charming or something.

She was gracious of course.

And beautiful.

In her soft, loose pants and cranberry . . .

 _Hello, perfect breasts._

 _No, I'm not looking._

 _They are pretty though._

. . . thermal blouse.

But Emma wasn't sexy like that.

 _Well, she_ is _but . . ._

But more than that, she was just beautiful and real and unaffected.

"I bet I look good."

Well . . .

 _Yeah, you do actually. You look like the best thing I've ever seen._

. . . _mostly_ unaffected.

But then he turned away from her to stare at her assortment of collected stuff.

Because he couldn't look at her.

She was her. She inspired so much in him.

And he, he was nothing.

His own mother didn't care about him, hated him.

Because of what he was.

She wished he never existed, only tolerated him in her life.

Except for when he helped her protect Norman.

Help explain away and hide all the disturbing red threads connected to Norman.

Then she, for however long until something else happened, loved him.

For a while.

And then Norman himself, his brother who couldn't see past the end of his own dangerous, mentally disturbed nose.

And the one person he felt he could talk to at all . . .

"Caleb had to leave the farm for a little while."

. . . was his father. Who was also his uncle.

And was now leaving him too.

Which sucked because . . .

". . . got used to him being there."

 _God, that's some screwed up shit._

And he knew he wasn't good enough to be in Emma's room.

In Emma's presence.

In Emma's plastic tubed air.

It was why he insisted Will not tell her he was the source of the money.

Because he didn't want her feeling like she owed him anything.

Ever.

Because he was just him and she . . .

"Of course, you did. He's your father."

. . . knew everything.

 _Shit._

It was a shame, an awful thing.

Something he had indirectly tried to get himself killed because of.

A bastard son.

Worse.

An incest bastard son.

It had taken months to try to process and compartmentalize it all in his mind enough so that he could keep living and breathing.

Resolving to excel in a highly respected, frequently utilized talent in the Bates/Massett Family Arsenal of Psychological Tips, Tricks, And Lies Against Reality.

Secretcy.

He had resolved to never tell anyone his real father's identity.

Ever.

And now, Emma, of all people, knew.

 _Shit._

"I'm sorry you know that."

He was ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated.

She would hate him, pity him.

Be disgusted by him.

 _I'm trash. Garbage._

 _And I didn't even do anything._

 _I was just . . . made._

He felt sick and dirty and diseased.

And unworthy.

All over again.

And he _hated_ it.

She had met Caleb, for god sakes.

Talked to him.

Hugged him.

Eaten across the table from him.

He had soiled her with his and Caleb's messed up, twisted presence.

"No."

Her voice was so gentle and caring and emphatic as she moved forward and reached out and touched . . .

 _Don't. You're too clean for me._

. . . his hand in comfort.

Gazing up at him with those warm brown eyes.

So full of light and life and sincerity.

Speaking words he'd never heard from anyone's lips.

"We come into the world the way we come into the world."

Her voice was low and even.

And warm and strong and beautiful.

And Dylan stopped.

And listened to her.

Hypnotized.

Embraced.

Lifted up.

"It's not our choice but . . . at least we're here."

 _Here._

 _Are you glad I'm here, Emma?_

And the look on her pale, oval face gazing up at him so openly told him she was.

That she cared.

About him.

No matter what he was.

He tried to stay tough but . . .

 _Oh_.

. . . the ache in his swelling heart hurt so much he could hardly breathe.

She didn't ignore what he was, insist it wasn't true.

She didn't try to sweep it away, pretend it didn't exist.

She just decided it didn't make him anything less than a living, breathing person in the world.

And there was suddenly a lump in his throat that he couldn't get past.

 _I can . . . I can . . . I can live with that._

And he knew what it was like to be, even just for a few minutes, washed clean.

 _So this is what it feels like to be saved._

With a few, simple words.

"Thanks, Emma."

And his own reply was just so very insufficient.

 _I love you._

Because it was the first time in a long time, maybe ever, that he had thought he had any true personal worth at all.

Just being a human being.

 _I love you._

And it was all because of her.

 _I love you so much._

* * *

 **What Emma did for Dylan was just so beautiful.**

 **And he had already gotten the money before she even set him free.**

 ***sniffles***


	29. Battle Scars

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Battle Scars

* * *

That same room he stood in now.

That same bed he had been laying on just a moment before.

That same girl he still loved.

Now more than ever.

And she was still so strong, so brave.

"Gross, huh?"

 _Meh._

Showing him her the transplant scar, staples and all, on the line of her rib cage even though . . .

"It's hideous."

 _Oh Emma._

"No, it's not."

 _Nothing could ever be hideous on you._

. . . she hated it and believed it was . . .

"You haven't seen it."

. . . monstrous.

But even with all that, she was still being tough, being amazing.

Being Emma.

". . . to have power over me or how I feel when I'm with you."

 _You're planning on being with me._

 _Cool._

And so she sat up, raised up her shirt only to the scar, hands modestly covering the rest of her chest.

So he could see.

And so she could force herself to choose to begin accepting the horribleness and gruesomeness of her stitched and glued and stapled flesh.

She was so strong, so determined to be okay.

 _God, you're amazing._

And he loved her for it.

All of her insides. And all of her outsides.

But she couldn't. Not yet.

 _It's really not that bad. And it'll be better once you get your staples out in a couple of weeks._

 _More comfortable too, I bet._

He could have said it.

Would have meant it.

But verbal reassurances weren't going to cut it right now.

The realization was too recent, the worry too current and fresh.

She wouldn't be bought with sincere encouragements about her beauty.

About the fact that it didn't matter to him if she was frankensteined completely to hell.

Which she wasn't.

Emma Decody was mature and wise beyond her years.

But she was still a human being.

And human beings needed a little encouragement every now and then.

Her scar didn't matter to him.

All the ways that she was different made her special and awesome to him.

But she was tired of feeling different, like a freak.

He didn't care, he thought she was perfect.

But this was big to her.

And it mattered.

Anybody could lie with their words.

She needed more than words.

So Dylan did the next best thing.

First he openly looked at the scar she presented to him.

 _Battle scar. Badass._

Then he stood up, took off his shirt.

Only a little embarrassed.

 _You showed me yours. I'll show you mine._

And revealed his own marred flesh.

Because her soul was perfect and beautiful.

And accepted his own stained and sometimes shredded one.

So a few scars on her wasn't much of anything to him.

She could never be ugly, it was impossible.

He was, had been.

But even that seemed to be fading, all the weird, miserable shit of his previous existence.

When he saw her look at him and smile.

Heard her encourage him, felt her wrap him in her embrace.

Knew he could be stronger than he had been.

Because she was the strongest, bravest person he had ever known.

And if she could be that strong and brave, he could be a little too.

* * *

"And what about this one?"

Her warm delicate fingers touching his skin was making him tingle.

And he was having trouble . . .

 _That feels good._

. . . keeping things light.

But it was important to show her his scars.

So she would know it was okay.

Okay to have scars, imperfections.

It was why he had looked so openly when she had showed him hers.

So she could see that he didn't care.

That he was not grossed out.

That it was just skin.

Important skin.

Healing skin that had been cut up to save her life.

And it was also fascinating.

 _Wow, they just cut you open and reached up there and yanked 'em out and hung up some new fresh, healthy ones, huh?_

 _Amazing._

But just because it was amazing and what he was doing was important, didn't mean . . .

". . . tiger shark . . ."

. . . he was going to act all serious about it either.

No, not with those fingers touching him so softly.

And those big, warm eyes gazing up at him so honestly.

 _It's actually an appendectomy scar._

 _I was eight._

 _Took Norma three days to take me to the doctor._

 _She said I was whining, being a baby._

 _I almost died._

 _But that's not a fun story._

He would tell her some other time if it came up again.

So . . .

" . . . you know, Chief . . ."

. . . he did his best Robert Shaw impression instead.

Made her laugh.

"Really? Come on, how're you gonna survive a shark attack if you can't listen?"

Teased her a little.

Put the past behind him.

And moved forward.

Right on to her bed.

By her enthusiastic insist, by the way.

And he was careful with her, so careful.

But still . . .

 _Oh yeah, this is much better._

. . . it definitely was the right move.

* * *

He didn't touch her much, he hoped there would be time for that later.

When her scar had healed more. Staples removed.

And her body stronger for more . . . strenuous activities.

And she was ready.

She had indicated though there might be time for that anyway.

Indicated, no, she had flat out _told_ him.

". . . doctor said, 'four to six weeks'."

A secret grin on her face.

Bashful happiness and excitement rippling through him.

So there was time later.

So instead of get carried away and hurting her now, he just stayed cool.

On the outside anyway.

Ran his fingers gently through her auburn hair.

Stroked her face.

And kissed those warm, inviting lips.

Explored that delicious, willing mouth.

 _Mmm, yeah, I could do this all day._

And was happy.

* * *

 **Happy, happy, happy.**

 **Yeah. :)**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and the Mystery Guest for so enthusiastically reviewing and encouraging me to keep writing. You're very appreciated, sweetie.**


	30. Unconquerable Soul

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Unconquerable Soul

* * *

He had gotten it not long after running off to be an independent, grown up adult no longer living in the abusive, dysfunctional crapfest of the Bates Family Horror Show: Arizona Edition.

It had seemed noble and uplifting.

Tough and hardcore and everything he was going to change himself into being now that he was finally freaking free.

Then again, he had been very stoned.

And listening to poetry.

He had nearly cried when the girl had, in her otherworldly, lilting voice, read it from a leatherbound book she had proudly proclaimed to be "the written word of my stubbornly defiant soul".

She had been blasted too.

And they had just had sex.

So he might have been a little vulnerable at the moment.

But still, as he had listened to the words he could almost see floating through the dusty air above the mattress on the floor of her one room apartment, Dylan had felt his heart swell, literally swell . . .

 _I'm going to die. But that's okay because I got to hear this first before I do._

. . . and everything threaten to spill out of his pores.

He had actually drifted off into a haze before any of that could physically occur in the way it did mentally.

But he still had remembered the feeling when he had awoken.

Asked her for the book.

"Be careful with it. It's my steampunk soul on forsaken paper."

 _Did you smoke more while I was sleeping?_

And copied down the words.

The ones that really got to him anyway.

 _My head is bloody but unbowed._

 _I am the master of my fate._

 _I am the captain of my soul._

Then, because he was worried he would lose the paper, he left and cruised on his bike until he found a tattoo shop.

It took several sessions.

All the money he had scraped together for rent that month.

And a lot of pain.

 _Tattoos don't hurt. My ass._

But eventually it was complete.

There were wings. Fancy scrollwork to be filled in at a later date.

But the meat of it was there.

Invictus.

 _Yeah._

 _That's me._

As it turned out, it wasn't.

Not yet.

It had depressed him that he was still the same messed up, dysfunctional, loser little freak he had always been.

And so he had stopped looking at it after a while.

Stopped trying to remember how it had felt to really desperately care that deeply about becoming somebody better.

And just gone on with his life as it was.

But, in some blind way, Dylan kept working at it.

Until eventually, with the help of people that crossed his path . . .

"I'm Ethan."

. . . both bad . . .

". . . kill your boss."

. . . and good . . .

"Thank you for what you've done for my daughter."

. . . Dylan Massett could finally say he was becoming . . .

". . . proud of you, Dylan."

. . . the person he had always wanted to be.

* * *

 **Okay, confession time.**

 **I was researching Max Theriot's left shoulder tattoo in hopes it was something I could use in my storytelling.**

 **I thought it said 'Invictus' and discovered this poem of the same name by William Ernest Henley. It's amazing and powerful and something I definitely could use. Look it up.**

 **As it turns out, the tattoo is something completely different and even more personal which I don't feel is my place to reveal. It's out there on the Internet and it's just as beautiful.**

 **So I went back to the Invictus thing and here we are.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown, Mystery Guest, and WordWeaver81 for kindly reviewing and being so in tune with Dylan's journey.**


	31. Home

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Home

* * *

She was freaking out.

Emma Decody, the strongest, toughest, most amazing person Dylan Massett had ever met in his entire life was freaking right the hell out.

Because she didn't want to die.

Or live like a lab rat.

She was freaking right the hell out on the pebbly banks of a rain-misty lake in the scut-rut hamlet of White Pine Bay, Oregon.

Instead of hauling ass north to Portland to get those lungs that were waiting for her.

The ones Dylan had nearly died for.

The ones Caleb had beaten the crap out of Chick for.

The ones that could help her breathe.

Help her live.

Help her conquer the world.

And . . .

". . . ridiculous when I cry."

. . . here she was wasting her time being embarrassed about breaking down and looking unattractive in front of _him_.

The unloved, incest, bastard son of Norma Bates and Caleb Calhoun.

The one who made a living selling illegal weed.

The one who'd killed people.

Out of necessity, sometimes.

But sometimes rage.

He wasn't good enough for her.

Nobody was good enough for her.

Certainly not Norman.

Brittle little Norman would flake away and die like old paint on a doorframe trying to be Emma DeCody for a _day_.

Most, including him, would.

And she didn't even know it.

She didn't even see.

How incredible she was.

And he loved her.

All of her.

Everything about her.

Not the least of which, she was . . .

". . . the least ridiculous person I've ever known."

The time on those lungs, old and new, was ticking away.

And he had to make her realize.

"You're wiser than most people twice your age . . ."

See that she could do this.

Could do anything.

"And you're the bravest person that I know."

And so well.

With so much strength.

Positivity. Kindness. Grace.

 _You gotta go._

 _You gotta get these lungs._

 _You gotta be okay._

 _In the whole world, you've got to be okay._

"You're a frickin' warrior."

She had stopped crying, stopped freaking out.

She was still. Quiet.

Transfixed.

Staring at him.

Those big, brown eyes gazing right through the middle of him.

And he, he could not stop staring back.

He had refrained from revealing his feelings for her before.

Or thought he had.

Up in her room when she had set him free.

And now . . .

 _Emma._

. . . he felt dangerously close to the edge again.

Dylan Massett wasn't familiar with delayed gratification.

For anything.

He was an action man.

And he was drawn to action people.

People who knew what they wanted and went for it.

People who didn't whine around or make a bunch of excuses for not living life.

And Dylan wasn't whining. Wasn't making excuses.

He just knew she wasn't for him.

She was too good.

And he was . . . him.

He probably would have continued thinking that for a long time.

Too long to have healed and been the truly happy he eventually could be.

And Emma would have missed out on all the love and joy and absolute devotion he gladly showered upon her.

But thankfully for both of them, there on the banks of the misty mountain lake where Dylan currently grew pot in a broken down old log cabin, Emma Decody took action.

She reached for him and he reached for her.

Their lips met, their bodies met.

Their souls met.

His hands reached out for her delicate shoulders, the yarn pattern rough beneath his fingers.

Her hair somehow still soft and inviting, webbed with rain.

He didn't feel the plastic oxygen nasal canula forever resting against her upper lip.

He didn't register the quiet hiss of the oxygen or think about her lungs mucusing away in her chest.

He only thought about her.

Emma.

How soft her lips were.

How great she smelled and how perfect she fit in his arms.

The softness and strength and welcomeness of her fingers against his skin.

Grazing the scruff at his jawline.

Emma.

How long he had waited and how much longer he would gladly wait for this rain damp, earthbound angel.

And he loved her.

He loved her. He loved her. He loved her.

It was only a few seconds while the busy universe spun out around them.

Will waiting, life waiting.

Lungs waiting.

Only for a few more seconds.

But it felt like everything to Dylan Massett.

It felt like coming home.

A feeling he had never associated positively with before.

But now understood wholeheartedly.

 _Emma._

They finally broke apart, mutually.

Though Dylan thought he could go on kissing her forever.

And when his vision cleared and he saw she really was there, he realized . . .

 _Oh wow, that was, um, intense._

. . . he had embarrassed himself completely and utterly beyond any regrouping at all.

 _Okay, no taking that back now._

And his stoic facade broke.

Even more so than before.

He laughed, shifting. Trying not to be awkward now of all times.

And they did that together too.

Laughed. Smiled.

Her hands folding up so adorably under her chin.

Head tilting prettily.

"What were we saying?"

A lightly joking lilt signifying her previous hysteria had passed for the time being.

And she was her again.

Dylan was grateful for the reprieve.

"I have no idea."

Shrugging, trying to find something else to say . . .

". . . hit on you right before a lung transplant."

. . . before he dropped dead of sheer embarassment and nerves.

Maybe not his most intelligent response ever.

"Are you hitting on me?"

But one that brought to the surface that easy banter . . .

 _Play with me, Emma._

. . . that he so loved.

With those eyes now bright and teasing and . . .

 _Cute, clever, I see what you're doing-_

. . . fishing to make him say the truth.

". . . don't know, I'm doing a pretty shitty job of it."

 _Yes, I'm hitting on you. Yes, I like you._

 _I love you._

The moment held, the levity she so needed to arm herself up to . . .

". . . this dumb lung transplant, huh?"

. . . do what had to be done.

"You have to."

It was a sincere statement.

 _You have to live._

 _Of everyone ever, you have to live._

And Emma, strengthening with every passing moment, still clung to him.

Fingers mindlessly kneeding the shoulders of his leather jacket.

Because she, the frickin' lung warrior, still needed reassurance.

Strength.

Care.

 _You can do this._

Because she was afraid.

Terrified.

Of the end.

Or, the beginning.

Stepping forward into his arms

Seeking his faith and belief.

That it could all be enough.

That it could all be alright.

That she would live.

And be okay.

And not die.

He held her.

He held her.

And he just believed.

As much as he could.

As strongly as he could.

For them both.

 _I love you, Emma._

* * *

 **Boy, that's was a good scene. For a number of reasons.**

 **Anyways,hope you're still enjoying the story.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and DinahRay for reviewing!**


	32. Facing Forward

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Facing Forward

* * *

 _Well_ that _was an embarrassing display._

 _Way to go, dumbass._

But it had felt so good.

To finally let go and not hide his love for her anymore.

Well, like.

Love might scare her away.

 _But I do._

 _I love you, Emma._

* * *

Walking along together. Strolling even. Holding hands.

Secret, shy smiles brightening their rain drizzled faces.

Her 'pet' rattling over the gravel along beside them.

And he didn't care.

He just cared about her.

"Thank you for the note," he suddenly remembered to say. "And the brownies and flowers."

Emma grinned happily, leaning into him a little bit in a way that made him . . .

 _Smoosh._

. . . feel really good inside.

"You're welcome. I just wanted to make you feel better."

 _Aww, she wanted to make me feel better._

"You did. Thanks, Emma."

She cleared her throat.

"You didn't share any with Gunner, did you?"

He shook his head, more than a little amused she'd had the same thought as he had.

"Uh, no."

 _I'm not sharing with Gunner anymore._

"Good."

They grinned at each other and walked on.

Peaceful for the moment.

Content.

Not denying the harsh, frightening, exciting reality of her impending surgery.

Just . . . letting it be up ahead.

Instead of here between them.

Just for a minute.

Before Dylan opened his mouth again.

"I want to follow you home. If that's okay."

She side-eyed him mischievously.

"Making sure I don't run away again?"

Dylan shook his head.

 _Maybe a little._

"No. I told your dad I would try to find you."

 _I'm responsible. I can be depended on._

 _I want him to see that._

"And . . . I just want to make sure you're okay."

Emma smiled softly.

"You're sweet, Dylan. You can follow me home."

She rested her head on his shoulder for a second and he had rarely felt happier.

Then she straightened.

"We'd better say goodbye now though. I don't want to talk about this with my dad right before surgery."

 _It's okay. I know I'm not good enough for you._

She seemed to sense his thoughts and plunged on.

"I'm not embarrassed of you or anything. He's just really really stressed right now. I don't want to make a big deal of anything else."

Dylan nodded, deciding to continue enjoying the present.

With her.

Who pulled him in for a kiss.

Or two. Or three.

He let her.

 _Emma._

 _I love you._

* * *

Emma's battered yellow Bug eased to a stop in front of Artful Artifacts, Dylan close behind.

Before she or her self assigned chauffeur had even shut off their vehicles, Will Decody practically ran out the front door.

His face was strained but not angry.

Anxious but not livid.

 _"Where the hell have you been?! I've been worried sick about you, Dylan!"_

 _"Chill out, Norma. You'll give yourself a heart attack."_

 _"Don't call me 'Norma'! I am your_ mother _!"_

 _"Whatever."_

Will Decody also appeared relieved as he approached his daughter.

And she him.

While Dylan stayed at a respectful distance.

"Hey, baby girl. Are you alright?"

Emma, hand finally still and calm on the handle of her oxygen tank.

"Yeah. I just needed to get away to think."

Will nodded, eyes searching her closely.

"It's okay to be scared. I am too. But this may be our only chance and we have to take it."

 _"Don't pressure me. For anything."_

But she didn't say _that_ to her father.

"I know."

Only hugged him tight, kissing his cheek before letting go and stepping back.

Will was smiling now, though blue eyes still tense.

"Can you be ready go to in thirty minutes?"

Emma smiled bravely.

"Fifteen."

Then with a backward glance at Dylan . . .

 _Emma._

. . . she went inside.

His hungry eyes followed her.

Until she was out of sight.

And Will Decody turned to Dylan.

"Thank you for finding her, Dylan. For talking to her."

Dylan nodded, not sure exactly what to say.

 _I kissed her too. But I didn't mean to. I mean, I did but . . . never mind._

"Will you be joining us in Portland?"

Mild, pleased surprise rippled through him.

"Oh, I, uh, hadn't really thought about it."

He hadn't really considered an invitation.

 _Please._

Until now.

 _I just want to make sure she's okay._

Will Decody shrugged, then spoke casual but warm.

"Well, do what you want. But I think she'd be glad for you to be there if you can."

He handed Dylan a scrap of scribbled on paper.

"Here's the name and address of the hospital. The surgery is Wednesday morning."

Dylan took it, feeling strange and surreal.

"Thanks."

He paused.

"I'll be there. If it's okay."

Will Decody nodded.

Seemed to want to say more.

Then with purpose, headed back into the darkened building.

Dylan stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets for moment.

Then returned to his truck, climbing back into the cab.

Shutting the door.

And stared up at Emma's window.

Chest tightening. Hands clenched into fists.

He glanced down and the red Tupperware lid caught his eye.

The brownies were long gone, only crumbs remained.

 _I forgot to give it back to her._

And suddenly that thing that been causing him . . .

 _"I feel like I'm floating outside of my body, Dylan."_

 _"That's just because I hit you."_

. . . him to feel so funny hit him fullforce.

That if the surgery went wrong, he had just seen her alive for the last time.

He briefly considered getting back out of the truck and nonchalantly returning the plastic container to her.

Maybe taking time for another hug.

A kiss.

Just drink her in, her in all her goodness and light.

Just once more.

His hand gripped the door lever, holding tension tight.

She needed to go.

They were waiting for her.

Her new lungs.

Some poor braindead person was dying.

So Emma Decody could live.

And if he was weak and selfish and held her up, she might be too late and not get another chance.

Dylan Massett let the latch go.

Started the engine.

 _Please let this work._

 _Please let her be_ _okay._

 _I love you, Emma._

And then he forced himself to drive away.

* * *

 **I sure hope this story isn't dragging for you, my gentle readers, because everytime I think I'm getting ready to move on, I have another thought that grows into another chapter.**

 **Thank you all for reading so far.**


	33. Always the Truth

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Always The Truth

* * *

"You look awesome."

That's what he had said as she had stared blearily at him through the haze of heavy painkillers they had her on so she would not feel the pain of her sutured lungs and her glued, sewn, stapled sterum.

She thought he joking with her. Or being blindly sweet and supportive.

But he wasn't.

Because she did, she really did.

She looked _awesome._

Because she was alive.

Still breathing.

Not dead.

Alive.

 _You look awesome._

He would think it and say it so many times over the many years they were together.

It meant so many things.

Different things at different times.

It meant ' _you are beautiful and I love you_ '.

It meant ' _you are a freakin' woman warrior growing our child inside you like that_ '.

It meant, ' _you look adorable with your bedhead and morning breath'._

It meant 'oh, _you're so sexy, I'm gonna rip your clothes off in about ten seconds_ '.

It meant, _'I'm so happy you're choosing to be my wife'._

But right then it just meant ' _you're alive and I love you and I'm so grateful you're okay and I just want you to live_ '.

And Emma smiled.

* * *

 **I loved that tiny little scene.**

 **Along with all the others, right?**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and SarahTurner84 for reviewing! I appreciate you so much. :D**


	34. About Those Brownies

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

About Those Brownies

* * *

Nobody was at the cabin when he drove up the dirt road to it.

Parked the truck.

Jumped out.

And stood in the quiet stillness.

The air seemed fresher out here. Cleaner.

The cabin wasn't much.

A big room where they cared for and nurtured their crop.

A smaller room with a couple of cots. A rickety end table holding an ashtray full of half smoked butts.

 _Not mine anymore._

 _I quit._

 _I could chew a tree trunk right now though._

A minimally functional bathroom.

The roof needed reshingling.

And there was no WiFi.

But Dylan Massett liked it.

Gunner's jeep was gone and unless Chick was sulking somewhere in the treeline, reciting poetry or waxing philosophical about the flight migrations of spotted towhees, nobody else was around.

So he was alone.

He needed to check the plants inside so he walked the length of the clapboard porch, heading toward the door.

Feeling exhausted and drained and depressed about Caleb.

He guessed he still hadn't processed almost being killed. That would probably come back to get him sometime.

But better even so.

Will had the money now to bump Emma up the transplant list.

Get her new lungs, set her free.

Unleash her on the world.

She would be okay now.

He hoped.

Everything else didn't matter as much right then.

He would figure it out later.

So, walking, he smiled.

Thinking of her.

 _Emma._

And stopped.

Arranged invitingly on the round, weatherbeaten table at the end of the porch nearest to the lake were three items that had not been there when he had left for Canada three days ago.

Wildflowers in a Mason jar.

A Tupperware container.

And a folded piece of notebook paper between the other two items.

Curious and already knowing they were from her . . .

 _Or Chick just rounded a whole other level of Creepozoid._

. . . he sat himself down in the chair facing the table.

And unfolded the paper.

 _Hey Dylan,_

 _The flowers are to remind you that there is always some beauty in the world._

 _The brownies are to remind you that little things in life can be sweet._

 _Call me when you get back. I want to see you._

 _You're a good person, Dylan. I care about you._

 _Love,_

 _Emma_

Dylan's heart swelled and his chest felt full to the brim.

He lifted his eyes to stare out over the serene, misty lake vista.

A little secret smile softening his usually grim expression.

 _She cares. About me._

 _She wrote me a note._

 _Made me brownies._

 _She left me flowers._

He'd had his fair share of girls.

Some of them were nice.

Some weren't.

And some were somewhere in between.

None of them were what you would call stable and permanent.

And Emma might not be permanent either.

If he screwed up.

Or if something happened to her.

But she was completely different.

She was everything hopeful and sweet and kind and strong.

And he really, _really_ liked her.

 _I think she likes me too._

He sat there a minute longer, wondering when she'd taken the time to do this.

Before he called her from the truckstop? After?

 _Does this mean she broke up with Norman?_

 _Or she's just being nice because she feels sorry for me?_

He looked down at the paper again.

 _I love her swirly handwriting._

Then he folded the note and put it in his inside jacket pocket for safekeeping.

Later reading.

Then he turned his attention to the plastic container.

Pried off the red top.

And beheld them.

Homemade brownies.

 _Oh man, that looks good._

And they were good too. Delicious.

Still moist.

 _Mmm, double fudge walnut._

He ate one, slowly. Savoring it. Indulging.

 _She made me brownies._

 _She brought me flowers._

 _She wrote me a note._

He stayed there a few minutes, surrounded by the simple, heartfelt encouragements of the dying girl with CF.

The one who could barely breathe.

But was taking care of him.

With brownies. And flowers.

And notes.

Just because she wanted to.

Then he gathered himself back together again.

Closing the Tupperware box, resolving to share them later with people he came across.

 _Hey, my girlfr-, this girl I know made them._

 _Good, huh?_

He unashamedly left the wildflowers on the table because they looked nice there. Made the place homey and hopeful in a way Norma's Borrowed House of Hellfire and Lacy Doilies never could.

And put the rest of the chocolatey goodness in his truck.

 _Oh Emma. You are awesome._

* * *

 **Mmm, brownies.**

 **Mmm, romance brownies.**


	35. Possible

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Possible

* * *

"Norma came to see me while you were gone."

 _Oh god. What happened? What did she say?_

But Emma was smiling as they walked the hospital halls. IV hookup rattling alongside her.

"Yeah, she brought me flowers."

 _Oh, that's nice._

"And, uh, she thanked me for making you so happy."

Dylan's blush, though he didn't know it, was one of pure run-of-the-mill mother-son embarrassment.

 _Nor_ ma.

But he knew where it had come from.

 _You would have been proud of me, Emma. I was like you._

And he had been.

Standing there in Norma's kitchen.

While she fixated on Norman.

And pushed away any feelings . . .

"I don't like him like that."

 _Oh come on, you're an open book, Norma._

. . . she might be having for Romero.

"I can't think about anything but Norman right now."

And he had decided to listen.

"I'm worried about him all the time."

Quietly and calmly.

"I feel like I abandoned him."

And encourage.

"You're doing the right thing for him."

Just like Emma would have.

And Norma was finally being real.

". . . hope so. What if he says something wrong? All the secrets I've tried to hide. Things people just won't understand-"

Well, _mostly_ real.

"I have no control over any of it and I have tried so hard for so long to try to protect him."

And she had.

Dylan realized Norma had expended nearly every bit of energy and life she had ever had just trying to protect Norman.

The problem was, where she had thought she was protecting, she was actually enabling.

And that kind of all consuming, blind, codependent love was exhausting.

Unhealthy.

Dangerous.

And he wanted to step in, interrupt, force her to see.

But he realized she was saying. . .

"Until I couldn't."

. . . things she needed to say. Needed to realize for _herself_.

And nobody was going to be able to do that for her.

So he stayed still and quiet.

And let her talk.

". . . it's out there. For better or for worse. It's out of my hands."

He watched her closely.

She was accepting her fate.

And Norman's.

At the moment, she seemed like she could get better.

That she had potential for healing.

 _Like me._

 _You just gotta go for it, Norma._

He realized he had real hope for her.

He wanted to.

She wasn't there yet but maybe she was on the right path it seemed.

Maybe he could support her and she really could get better.

"You know, I think it's all going to be okay, Norma. You just have to allow it to be."

 _We can get better, Norma._

 _You._

 _Me._

 _Emma._

 _Norman._

 _We can all get better._

 _We just have to work for it._

 _And help ourselves._

 _It's possible._

And when he had left to head back to wrap things up at the cabin, he had felt lighter.

Stronger.

Calmer.

Healthier.

Better.

 _Because of you, Emma._

But Dylan Massett wasn't quite ready to say everything out loud yet.

So he just smiled at her.

As she continued to talk.

About encouraging Norma.

". . . doing the right thing."

 _Hey, that's exactly what I said._

 _Cool._

". . . told her to let go a little . . ."

 _Er, really?_

". . . breathe on her own. Think about herself a little."

 _Wow. Bet she hated that one._

He instantly surged with concern for Norma's reaction toward Emma offering up such healthy, normalizing advice.

Emma was in such a delicate state, still healing, she definitely did not need one of Norma Bates' Nervous Breakdown Operas of The Wounded-

"She didn't seem to like it much. But she listened."

 _Of course she did._

Dylan smiled to himself.

Emma Decody, the only person, who might exorcise the Devil himself.

 _I love you._

* * *

And he was still trying.

Weeks later.

Even knowing he was leaving soon.

And it would all be over for him.

He was trying so hard.

While Norma sat there with her back to him . . .

 _How do you do that?_ _Sit with your back to the door like nobody's going to get you? I can't do that._

. . . sewing new curtains.

 _I didn't come here to help you Martha Stewart the drapes, Norma._

Like _that_ was what was important right then.

Canning happily boiling away downstairs.

 _Damn, that's alot of jam._

While Audrey Decody went missing.

With no working phone number.

No forwarding address.

And Emma's stuffed rabbit and her mom's note stashed away . . .

". . . here, in his room."

. . . in Norman's clean-as-a-pin room.

"Say it out loud. It's gonna sound really stupid."

 _I think Norman did something to my girlfriend's mom, Norma._

"I'm not just gonna let this go."

 _Because this is insane, you must know that._

"Whatever. Do what you think you gotta do."

 _But you don't give a shit, do you?_

"Vaya con Dios."

Cold as ice.

Or a dysfunctional mother who would do absolutely anything to harbor and shield a son who could possibly be a murdering psychopath.

Explain away . . .

". . . came by the hospital and then she came here and Emma hasn't heard from her since."

. . . all the red flags waving like crazy about this whole . . .

"You mean they were _alone_ together?!"

. . . thing.

Acting like she hadn't paid attention . . .

"Did Emma die?"

 _What the HELL, Norma?!_

 _How can you SAY that?! Don't even THINK it!_

. . . to anything he had said from the beginning.

"I told you we would go to the Christmas tree thing!"

Trying to twist everything.

Bend reality.

Make him crazy.

And he just . . .

"And I really wouldn't let him come home."

. . . could not believe he was still fighting this continous, time looping hell of a battle.

As she . . .

"I already said I _wouldn't_!"

. . . screamed at his back as he finally fled . . .

 _Even, even, stay even. Walk away._

"Alright. Bye, Norma."

. . . the black hole of Norma Bates' Manic Depressive Hell he seemed to get caught up in any time they disagreed ever.

 _Emma, Emma, Emma. I'm coming home._

 _Oh please let me come home._

* * *

But how could he come home to her knowing Norman might have done something . . .

 _Killed. Go on, say killed. Do it. Norma._

 _No._

. . . to her mom?

He sat in his truck a long time thinking about that.

 _I. Don't. Know. For. Sure._

 _Not good enough._

 _But she'll hate me._

 _I didn't do it. I didn't cause it._

 _I didn't even know about it._

 _Until now._

 _And besides . . . there might not even be anything_ to _know._

 _Coward._

 _Shut up._

 _Liar._

 _Shut up._

 _Norma._

 _Shut UP!_

. . .

 _Shit._

Then he went back to his orginal defense anyway.

 _I don't know for sure_ anything _happened to her._

 _I don't have any_ proof _._

Then he went home to Emma anyway.

And prayed formlessly that he was right.

Because he could be.

 _Four months backrent._

That was a big one.

 _And she only disappeared three weeks ago._

 _So . . . maybe Norman didn't . . ._

 _Kill._

 _. . . do anything to her._

It was possible.

She had just cut and run after being rejected by Will at the hospital.

 _A very Norma thing to do._

Except Norma had come home.

And . . .

 _It's possible._

But he never quite believed it.

Especially after . . .

 _Shit_.

. . . holding the earth shattering weight of Emma's missing mother's earring in his . . .

 _What do I do now?_

. . . clammy hand.

* * *

 **Whew, Norma, Norma, Norma. Right?**

 **Anyway, nobody can say Dylan didn't try, huh?**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and my Kind Guest for reviewing. Very gracious of you!**

 **Also thank you for whoever pinned the first chapter of this story to their Pinterest board. How freakin' cool is _that_?**

 ***skips away giddily***


	36. The Freakin' Warrior Part 2

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Freakin' Warrior Part 2

* * *

 _Ping._

 _Ping._

Emma was finally getting her staples out.

 _Ping._

After nearly three weeks.

 _Ping._

Over fifty pieces of narrow steel.

 _Ping._

Being first crimped, then pulled out of her tender flesh.

 _Ping._

With medical tweezers.

 _Ping._

One by one.

 _Ping._

And dropped into . . .

 _Ping._

. . . the waiting metal bowl.

 _Ping._

She lay outstretched on the examination table.

Arms spreadeagle on either side of her.

One hand working a soft sponge . . .

". . . in case you feel the need to move or focus on something else other than the procedure."

"Does it hurt?"

"Some patients feel discomfort at the tugging sensation. Others feel a general sense of malaise at the thought of the procedure. Some are unbothered at all."

"Can Dylan stay?"

"Yes. But he must wear a face mask to lower risk of infection."

"Dylan, will you stay?"

It wasn't even a thought.

"Yeah, sure. Of course."

So here they were.

The face-masked nurse methodically removing . . .

 _Ping._

. . . staples from Emma cut, stretched, glued, sewn, stapled torso.

 _Ping._

And Dylan holding her right hand.

Rubbing her soft fingers reassuringly with his own calloused ones.

Their masks covered their noses and mouths.

So only Emma's warm, dark eyes hinted at her state of mind, current physical reactions.

At first she looked nervous.

 _Ping._

And Dylan tried to pour calm into her.

 _Ping._

Like she did him when he needed it.

 _Ping._

Locking gazes.

 _Ping._

Smiling with his eyes.

 _Ping._

Holding her safe with his hand.

 _Ping._

And he thought they were going to make it through this.

 _Ping._

The nurse paused every few staples to allow a second nurse to first wipe droplets of blood away from Emma's punctured skin and apply an antiseptic/healing agent to the holes.

Adhering a long, continuous strip of protective bandaging to the site.

Any and every precaution against infection had to be taken to combat the effects of her daily immunosuppressants.

 _Ping._

The medical professionals worked quickly and efficiently as possible.

 _Ping._

And Dylan . . .

 _Ping._

. . . just held on to Emma's hand.

She lay still enough.

Breathing evenly.

Keeping her eyes on his.

 _Ping._

Until he noticed little changes.

 _Ping._

Little ticks.

 _Ping._

Cracks in her facade.

 _Ping._

Her breathing deepening.

 _Ping._

Coming in bigger and bigger gulps.

 _Ping._

Yet still even.

 _Ping._

As if she were struggling to control it.

 _Ping._

Her right hand tightening on his until it was almost painful.

 _Ping._

Her left working the sponge with more and more intensity.

 _Ping._

The set of her eyes changed too.

 _Ping._

Hardening.

 _Ping._

As if she were concentrating on maintaining control of herself.

 _Ping._

And he just knew it was hurting her.

 _Ping._

Making her sick.

 _Ping._

Or that she was freaking out.

 _Ping._

Emma was tough, tougher than anyone else he had ever known.

 _Ping._

But this repeated torture would get to anybody.

 _Ping._

Physically.

 _Ping._

Psychologically.

 _Ping._

He put both hands around her one.

 _Ping._

Trying to help ground her.

 _Ping._

Trying to hold her together.

 _Ping._

Until it was over.

 _Ping._

But he couldn't sustain her.

 _Ping._

Even she wasn't strong enough to stay stoic against this.

 _Ping._

And eventually . . .

 _Ping._

. . . she cracked.

 _Ping._

Dropping the sponge suddenly and clapping her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to hold in her cries.

"Miss Decody?"

As she lost her battle of wills.

* * *

Will Decody popped up from his chair in the waiting room.

Face set in concern as Emma and Dylan exited the inner sanctum of the doctor's office.

Emma, still redfaced and weak, tremulously staying her feet.

"Hey, everything okay?"

She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.

Dylan shaking his head in bemusement.

"Dylan?"

Emma buried her face in Dylan's shoulder, something she hardly ever did.

"She laughed!"

Will DeCody's entire countenance blinked in confusion.

"What?"

Emma's face grew redder than ever.

Confessing.

"I couldn't help it. It tickled!"

Dylan, a big grin spreading all over his amused face . . .

 _God, I love you._

. . . continued his recounting of the situation.

"The nurses had to wait for her to stop laughing to finish pulling out all the staples!"

Emma swiped at her face, attempting to compose herself as she spoke.

"They actually said it happens sometimes and they prefer it better to patients who scream and cry."

Dylan Massett, still in amused awe of the girl he loved, still couldn't help teasing her a little.

"I don't know if they liked it as much as you did."

Emma pushed playfully at his arm and he vaguely waved a surrendering hand.

"I'm just saying, it was _alot_ of laughing."

Will Decody smiled first at his daughter then Dylan in fond bewilderment.

And Dylan felt a growing comradery among them.

A bond.

Like a . . . family.

A real family.

Like he was being accepted into their family.

It was a good feeling.

And it probably wouldn't have happened either without Emma's cystic fibrosis.

 _Now there's a thought._

The Proud Father of the Warrior Princess shrugged, appeared just as bemused and relieved as Dylan felt.

"Well, I'm glad it went well. Let's get out here."

 _Good idea_ , Dylan thought. _We seem to be drawing a crowd._

He glanced around, observing several previously grim faces brightened by hope.

Even if temporarily.

 _Yeah, she has that effect on people._

And they went.

* * *

 **Okay, so in my research, I found out this actually happens on occasion.**

 **And if anybody was going to have this response to having shards of metal pulled out of their skin, it would be Emma.**

 **Don't you think?**

 **Anyway, thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing !**


	37. Acceptance

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Acceptance

* * *

Big tough bastard incest son of Caleb and Norma Bates was drinking tea.

Real British tea.

Made by a real British person.

As in English professor British.

Because Dylan was in love with the British man's daughter.

The daughter who had just survived a double lung transplant.

And was now a living miracle.

And loved him . . .

 _Maybe. Eventually._

. . . back.

So yeah, Dylan Massett sat and drank the steamy Earl Grey tea in their cozy little kitchen with them upon invitation.

 _It's not bad. It's . . . hot . . . flavored . . . liquid._

 _Ahem._

But he didn't care.

He'd snag a coke later from a seven-eleven on the long drive to Seattle.

For now, he was content to down the hot English tea that was really no worse tasting than some of the cold engine coolant that had passed for beer he had swigged in times past.

Because it meant he got to be with her.

Emma.

And her dad.

Together.

They were good, normal people.

Not the fake good, normal people Norma tried to pretend her and Norman were.

Not the unhinged psychopaths hiding under the surface.

But honestly good, normal people.

They cared for each other.

Not unhealthily so like his mother and brother.

Love and hate all mixed up and rolled into one, big, unpredictable mess of crazy.

But just truly cared for and loved each other.

Will DeCody raised his daughter to be as independent as possible so that she could live so as long as she lived.

Which now, with careful care and good luck, would be significantly longer.

Norma raised Norman to be dependent on her. Revolve around her. Give her value and worth and attention.

Hold her up. Make her complete.

Because she herself was incomplete.

Maybe that was why she had named him Norman.

To complete her as a person.

And to be the son Dylan could never, would never be.

 _Thank God._

A wreck.

A stifled, nerve wracked, beyond mama mama's boy.

Someone Norma could remake in her own image and look upon and be proud of.

Who was possibly . . .

"I told you not to do that!"

 _Nobody hits me anymore and gets away with it! Do you hear me?! Nobody!_

. . . completely homicidal.

But Will and Emma.

They were real human beings.

To themselves. To each other. To the world.

And they . . .

"So, Dylan, how was the drive?"

"Ah, you know, traffic and all. Construction. But fine."

"Sounds better than I would have handled it. Surely the bobby wouldn't ding an old Brit for ploughing over a few unsuspecting drivers, eh?"

"Dad!"

"Haha, no. You could just quote poetry at them and they'd let you go."

"Dylan!"

. . . even accepted him for himself.

* * *

 **Little fun bit here. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Thanks, Lana Brown, for reviewing all these sweetie!**


	38. Mother-Son Relationship

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Mother-Son Relationship

* * *

It wasn't the first time Norma had whaled on him.

And it probably wouldn't be the last.

Dylan Massett had been taught from a very early age not to hurt girls.

He remembered it clearly.

Six years old.

Playing outside with the neighbor kids.

Warm, sunny day.

Having fun.

Tag or some shit.

And one of the girls, because she was cute and he liked the way she giggled, he pulled one of her pigtails.

"Ouch!"

And she had turned to him and he had grinned.

She had stuck out her tongue.

He had reached out and pulled the other tail of braided hair.

And from out of nowhere . . .

"Dylan, you _stop_ that!"

. . . his mother had appeared.

"Don't you _dare_ do that!"

Screaming and grabbing him by the back of his shirt.

"Don't you ever, _ever_ hurt girls!"

Yanking him nearly off his feet and dragging him away.

Swinging wildly and with heavy hand a wire hairbrush with half the bristles gone.

"Don't you _dare_ do that!"

Trying to defend himself, yelling incoherently in terror.

Hands instinctually up in front of his face so his fingers took most of the blows.

The girl and the other kids standing still in a state of agape shock.

As Norma Bates dragged her towed headed, writhing son, into the house.

Where she slammed the door.

Drug him into his room, the smaller of the two because Norman got the bigger one.

And dumped him there.

"You are a _bad_ little boy, Dylan!" she shouted, shaking a finger in his cowering face. "And you can just _stay_ in here until you've learned your _lesson_!"

Then she stalked out, slamming the door shut behind her.

Leaving him on the floor in a ball.

Crying and snotting everywhere.

His body stinging all over, welts rising on his burning skin.

Hands red and swollen from where the flat side of the plastic had hit them.

And he laid there alone and cried until he worn himself out.

And learned his lesson.

* * *

And now, here they were again.

What had happened to her was awful.

Getting raped by Keith Summers.

No woman should have to suffer that.

It infuriated him, made him sick.

But Norma had gone too far.

Kill him, okay.

Dylan could see a scumbag that would rape a woman deserved to die.

Especially in the heat of the moment like that.

But dragging Norman into it, twisting him up even further than he already was.

 _Too much, it's too much, Norma._

And frankly, she hadn't learned a damn thing from it.

She had always been like that.

Unstable, creating drama, dragging everyone around her into shit nobody could handle.

She was unfit to raise a cat.

 _And those things don't need anybody._

Dylan was sick to death of it. Mad as hell.

So when she cornered him on the stairs . . .

"Where's Norman?"

 _How should I know? You've taught him to run from me._

"Out with a girl."

. . . he could not keep his mouth shut.

 _When I'm the one trying help him be normal. And you're just turning him into a freak because you're so needy._

 _And crazy._

". . . taken away from you."

Telling the truth.

But also . . .

" _Nobody_ is taking him away from me."

. . . goading her. Trying to hurt her.

Because . . .

 _What? Do you expect him to be at your beck and call every second for the rest of his life?_

 _Because you can't just live and breathe on your own?!_

 _That's insane!_

. . . what she was doing, had always done to him and Norman, was outright criminal.

He hadn't thought about her going batshit all over him.

Screaming, slapping, hitting.

It wasn't the first time she had struck out at him.

Or the fiftieth, probably.

But he was bigger now. Older. Stronger.

Angrier.

But even so, he couldn't hit her.

Wouldn't.

Instead, he reversed, shied away, deflecting her blows.

Realizing she wasn't going to stop . . .

 _Would you call the cops or just bury me in the backyard if I fell down the stairs and broke my neck?_

. . . he grabbed her upper arms.

Turned her around.

And pushed her back against the wall.

Grabbed those flailing arms by the wrist, pinning them just above her head.

Holding her still, steeling himself to wait for her to wear herself down.

Just like that time with Kristi when she was strung out on meth and hadn't slept for three days straight.

Just holding her until she gave up her assault.

Knowing it was Norma Bates.

So it might take a while.

Ducking his head down near her shoulder and away to protect his face.

Even getting his big ear out of the way.

 _Satellite dishes, right, Tommy?_

In case she tried to bite it off.

But Norma, for all her fire and acid tongue.

Was just a weak, broken thing once you disarmed her.

Crying and victimised all over again.

When the person who was really taking a psychological hit lately it seemed . . .

 _God, woman, what have you done to that kid? He's a wreck._

. . . was Norman.

The doorbell cut through her pitiful, shrill weeping and he let her go.

Her hate glaring through his brain.

 _What else is new?_

She wouldn't say anything about the incident later.

Unless it served her purposes.

She would just . . .

"Hey, Dylan, can you help me out?"

. . . put it out of her mind like nothing had ever happened.

 _Sure, Mommy. I mean, Mother. I mean, no._

But for now while she tottered unsteadily down the stairs . . .

"Norman, honey?"

. . . Dylan trudged up to the third floor to sleep off his alcohol.

 _Why the hell did I come here?_

And his anger.

 _And why am I still staying?_

* * *

 **So many things I can't say here about this scene and my addition to it.**

 **Guess I'll just hug somebody instead.**

 **You kind, silent reader go do the same, okay? See you back here later.**


	39. I Love You

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

I Love You

* * *

He was walking into something, that was for sure.

Him with his coffee and muffin breakfast offering.

Emma's new meds.

Entering what he had _thought_ was the Decody residence.

Hearing strained, anxious voices.

 _Wait, what house am I in?_

But seeing nothing being thrown or shattered or threatened.

And the voices weren't _that_ raised.

So he guessed they were still them.

And there they were.

Will's usually serious face was, well, more serious.

Emma, on the other hand, unusually stormy looking.

And in the next second, all was made clear.

"Dylan, you can back me up here. Audrey was a mess at the hospital, yeah?"

 _Oh, uh, well, she seemed alright to me. A little stressed, maybe._

 _But I have Norma Bates for a mother so-_

Emma DeCody's eyes shifted and her dark, seeking gaze thudded down onto Dylan Massett's soul with the weight of falling boulder.

 _Oh shit._

He could see it in the fall of her facial features.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He had betrayed her confidence.

Crossed a line.

 _We thought-_

 _No, don't shift blame._

"I didn't want to upset you."

In her best interests at the time, maybe.

But . . .

He could see it in her entire countenance.

 _You don't have the right to make that decision for me._

 _She's my mother, not yours._

. . . she was pissed.

And he only hope he could make it right.

 _Okay, what would my family do?_

Deny. Shift blame.

Underhandedly attack one another until somebody freaked out.

Then shout and scream and instigate more drama.

So Dylan did what he had always tried to do in life.

The opposite of whatever his mother and brother would do.

And now he had added, ' _whatever Emma would do'._

He stood there for a second.

Handed Will the breakfast.

Barely registered the reassuring pat on the shoulder.

And headed up to her room.

To quietly apologize.

Ask forgiveness.

And talk to her quietly and calmly.

Let her have her say.

And since they had never much argued before . . .

 _"So basically it doesn't matter how people treat you?"_

 _That's bullshit._

. . . he also took her new meds as a foot in the door.

* * *

Audrey's letter Dylan retrieved from Norman's bedroom didn't help in the way he had hoped it would.

It only strengthened Emma's belief that Audrey didn't want her.

Her voice trembling, biting back her pain.

". . . waste time on someone who doesn't want you."

She was hurting.

She was hurting so much.

Based on the letter, what Dylan had found out from the landlord, and all past evidence, Emma believed her mother didn't really want her.

Had only showed up to weddle sympathy and money.

She was probably right.

But who wouldn't want Emma for a daughter? She was sweet and smart and funny and brave and so many other things he couldn't even begin to list.

 _She's everything, how could anyone not want her?_

The mother-daughter bond was supposed to be this really important thing for girls.

He wouldn't know, not being a girl and not having a mother.

Well, _Norma_.

But she was and never had been any semblance of a good mother.

She tried. Sometimes.

But something was broken inside of her.

Something was sick and twisted and self-destructive.

So he guessed that wasn't a good example.

Of course according to Emma's father, neither was Emma's mother.

Which was a complete crapfest.

But if her mother had been in her life, a good mother, the mother she deserved, Emma probably wouldn't be the person she was.

She would probably be less 'cause people who always had it all never appreciated it like those who didn't.

It was screwed up, complete shit.

Unfair and unreal and stupid.

All the things he accepted from his life.

Not hers.

And she was hurting and he couldn't fix it.

He couldn't fix her stupid mother.

The only thing he could do . . .

"She never really wanted me."

. . . was hold her if she'd let him and let her work it out for herself.

And . . .

"I want you."

. . . tell her how he felt.

And she would eventually. Work it out for herself.

Emma was a freakin' warrior like that.

And he . . .

"I love you."

. . . loved her for it.

For all the ways she was.

He didn't say it to get what he wanted from her.

Which was nothing, by the way.

He didn't say it for future points.

He didn't even say it to hear her say it back.

He said it . . .

 _I love you._

. . . because he meant it.

Because he wanted to say it.

He'd wanted to say it for a long time.

Said it in his head all the time.

But saying it out loud, the fear of being rejected, even by someone he trusted so absolutely as Emma, that was hard.

So difficult.

What if she didn't feel as much as he did, which was everything?

What if she didn't want someone like him to say it to someone like her?

He had never said it to anyone before.

Never really felt it.

Dared it to feel it.

Until her.

Emma.

Beautiful, vulnerable, strong, gentle Emma.

So it was really difficult for him to allow himself to say it out loud.

But he said it anyway, forced himself to be okay being that vulnerable.

And because he felt it.

And he wanted her to hear it.

So she'd know it.

 _I love you._

And then he just stayed quiet.

And held her.

Because that's what you did when you loved somebody.

You loved them.

And took care of them.

* * *

They eventually fell asleep together like that.

Her on her right side.

Pale oval face finally relaxing into restful reprieve.

Tears drying salty on her cheeks.

Dylan, curled up behind her.

Cradling her with his body.

Protective, loving.

Accepting.

Face buried in her sweet smelling hair.

Longing, rambling diatribe of letter abandoned on the bedside table.

They stayed thus, breathing together.

And when Will woke them for lunch, Emma hugged her father.

Kissed Dylan.

Put the letter away.

And spoke no more about it for a long, long time.

* * *

 **To date myself, I am a grown, mature woman with an almost teenager in the house. And I had the happiest smile on my face when he told her he loved her.**

 **I still do.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing! Thanks to Guest as well and if you've read this far, know that yes, there will be Daddy Dylan and baby daughter interactions absolutely!**


	40. The Invisible Man

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Invisible Man

* * *

Ninety-five percent of him had not wanted to see Norma hurt by that bastard Shelby.

He didn't want to see her in pain, humiliated, or shamed.

The other five percent . . .

 _See what happens, Norma, when you don't rein in the crazy?_

. . . whispered that maybe, finally _this_ time, the message would sink in.

 _Stop making bad decisions in life, Norma._

Either way, Dylan was being very strategic.

Watching every move. Listening to every nuance of the rat bastard's heavy handed, jackassery speech.

Waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Disarm him.

Take the gun away.

And stop this madness.

* * *

And when the time did come, after Norma had been knocked onto the floor and Norman lay unconscious with a head wound, Dylan did.

Almost dying in the process.

But still getting the job done.

Killing Shelby.

 _I'm racking up some sort of a body count here._

Promising to help Norma protect Norman.

 _Wow, Sam, huh? No shit?_

Not too surprised, though.

 _He did come after me with a meat tenderizer._

Tell enough of the truth to make it work.

Hide the rest.

And just keep going.

And it still stung.

It still bit and burned when Romero . . .

"Here's what the story's gonna be . . ."

. . . swooped in like a superhero . . .

". . . close in on him at this point . . ."

. . . to take all the credit for everything.

". . . kill Zach Shelby with this gun."

Dylan, painkillers unable to completely take away the pain in his shoulder.

"Oh yeah? And what's this?"

Could not keep his mouth shut.

. . . as Romero changed history to heroically save the day.

"You got in the way."

 _Wow. That is quite a load of bullshit you're about to get rewarded for, Sheriff._

 _Damn._

Dylan was understandably pissed.

"That's _it_?! I risk my life to save all your asses and take that guy down and that's _it_?!"

 _Are you serious right now?!_

"I got in the way of his showdown?!"

But they didn't care.

Norma and Norman.

They were just happy to be all done with their worries and cares about Zach Shelby and the dead girl in the woods and Keith Summers' belt.

While Dylan had bled and nearly died . . .

 _Hello?_

. . . and, along with basically everyone _but_ Romero, put forth all that effort . . .

 _Son of bitch, really?_

. . . for apparently nothing.

 _Wow._

And nobody cared but him.

 _You guys suck._

* * *

But later, it was all completely different.

"Don't let Emma know it came from me."

Once again, he had almost died for somebody.

Emma.

Beautiful, purehearted Emma and her CF-ed lungs.

Only this time . . .

"If that's what you want."

. . . he was insisting upon anonymity.

"It is."

And could barely even stomach.

"Dylan. Thank you."

The thought of her finding out.

* * *

 **Thanks to all the silent readers of this story!**


	41. That Dying Light

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

That Dying Light

* * *

The whole thing had almost come apart so many times.

Just like Dylan had felt he would.

Standing there.

Next to . . .

". . . in a pool. I guess she wanted to surprise you."

. . . Emma.

And The Pit of Despair.

He wasn't sure he could feel worse.

Sore and tired and smelly.

And he could still feel the gun barrel pressed into the back of his skull.

 _I thought I was going to die. That I had screwed up and that you were going to die too, Emma._

 _And I still don't have the money._

 _You're still going to die._

 _Unless I can do something._

"Dylan? What do you need the money for? Is it important? Can I help?"

 _Yes._

 _Stop having CF._

 _Stop being sick._

 _Don't die._

He had failed at getting her the money to bump her up the list for a lung transplant.

He had failed and she still couldn't breathe and she was going to die . . .

 _Oh god._

And here she was trying to help him.

Offer him money.

For the farm, she probably thought.

Not even thinking about herself.

 _Where are you going to get money, Emma?_

And he just knew . . .

 _Jesus._

. . . he was a world class asshole loser.

And though he _had_ felt this low . . .

 _I'm sorry, Emma._

. . . he couldn't remember when.

The only thing in the world he could think to be grateful for was that she wasn't dead yet.

She had no idea of his failed plan.

And it was dark enough at the edge of that weird pit . . .

 _Bomb crater, Em._

. . . that the tears in his eyes at the thought of sweet Emma offering him money for his stupid farm or barn or whatever.

When she just needed to breathe and be okay.

He used every last ounce of his failing strength . . .

 _They put a gun to my head. They were going to kill me._

 _And all I could think about was that you couldn't die._

. . . to keep his voice calm.

"It is important. No, I don't think you can help."

 _I wish you could._

 _I wish you could always live and breathe and be happy._

"Thanks, Emma."

 _No matter who you were with or where you were._

And then Dylan Massett hid his face away from Emma DeCody's dying light.

 _I have got to get her that money for those lungs._

And went home.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **More sweets coming up!**


	42. The Telltale Earring

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Telltale Earring

* * *

"Hey."

"Hey. Feeling better?"

"Yeah. I just needed some time to process everything."

Time had passed.

Not much. A few days.

The letter was gone.

He figured she'd packed it away.

But he wasn't going to ask and risk hurting her again with it.

"Thank you for being there for me, Dylan."

She paused, dark eyes searching his.

"I know you've always got your own problems with Norma and Norman but it means a lot to me for you to help me with mine."

 _Of course, I love you._

"I'm glad we can count on each other."

 _Yes. Always._

 _Except when I have to lie to you because I don't know if Norman killed your mother or not._

"I didn't say it before because I didn't want it to get all mixed up for me in the drama with my mom."

 _The mom Norman probably killed?_

She paused again before gifting Dylan with one of the sweetest smiles he had ever seen from her.

Almost driving out the whispering, niggling Norman thoughts that kept him up at night.

Almost.

"You're such a good person, Dylan. Not because you've had a good life or because you were taught to be. But because you choose to be."

He felt his heart swelling up in his chest.

Almost painful, but good too.

And a little bad.

"I love you, Dylan."

Then the feeling exploded, flooding his entire being with warmth and love.

 _She loves me._

Relief.

 _She trusts me._

Undercurrented with surreshing guilt.

"I love you too, Emma."

She reached up and kissed his mouth with her smiling mouth then.

And he tried to let her.

* * *

 **It makes me a little ill frankly, to realize that though Dylan truly loves Emma, he does withhold this information from her. Essentially marring their relationship very early on.**

 **We'll return to that later.**

 **But there will be happiness too.**

 **Because there must.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing. I really like the lightening bug analogy. :)**


	43. The Difference Between Bradley and Emma

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Difference Between Bradley and Emma

* * *

"Dylan, I'm . . . I'm glad."

Dylan dared not breathe a sigh of relief.

Really?

Norman was holding a wooden croquet mallet after all.

 _Is it good practice to allow mental patients control of blunt instruments?_

But he seemed sincere. And calm.

"Yeah. I get it. I really do."

 _Really?_

 _What are those meds you're on anyway?_

Norman sure hadn't been near this calm when _Bradley Martin_ had started batting her lashes at him.

"I'm going to go finish my homework."

 _Wow. Seductive manly statement for sure._

 _Dumbass._

And then later, Norman had started screeching about socks . . .

". . . white socks to a dance!"

. . . and Norma had screamed right back . . .

". . . _darn_ some black socks?!"

. . . and Dylan . . .

 _What the hell is_ wrong _with you people?_

. . . had tried to calm the Bates Footwear Typhoon of Terror.

"I've got black socks he can borrow."

 _If you both would just calm the shit down._

Knowing all along that it probably . . .

 _God, she's just a_ girl _, Norman._

. . . had something to do with Bradley.

And those big, vulnerable eyes. That long, blond hair.

And of course, the fact that she was . . .

 _Nope. Nope. Nope._

. . . a completely bad idea.

So many reasons.

Bradley Martin was a big fat no.

For one, even though she was eighteen and had clearly been around the block . . .

 _Even_ Norman _got to do her._

 _Damn_.

. . . she was only a high schooler.

Two, she was broken. And wounded.

Unstable.

And volitile.

Part of that was a turn on.

 _She needs me._

 _Well, she needs somebody._

Part of it was . . .

 _Nooo._

. . . that it was wrong.

Which of course was also a turn on.

They could always just be messed up and wounded and lost together for a while.

Didn't have to be forever.

Just long enough to not feel so alone.

Until it didn't work.

But it was out of the question.

Norman still was hung up on her. Fixated, really.

 _I can see why._

And Dylan didn't see how he could juggle Bradley along with everything else.

And so for all those reasons . . .

". . . lines you don't cross."

. . . and a myriad of others, Dylan didn't touch her.

Well, he hugged her.

Because her broken little girl spirit called out for him to comfort her.

And he was a big softie in that area.

And he was lonely too.

 _She's alone, I'm alone._

 _No_.

But that was it.

She had jumped off a bridge, got jammed in a mental institution, got out, and murdered the man who murdered her father.

Which was alot.

Or the norm if you were part of the Bates/Massett Circus Crazy Train of WTF Life.

 _I can handle that. I can handle all that._

And then eventually, she got on a Greyhound to save her own life.

While Dylan watched . . .

 _I can handle that too. Whatever._

. . . with only a little jealousy as she escaped.

From White Pine Bay.

And eventually eventually . . .

"Hey, Dylan."

"Hey, Emma."

. . . he was glad about it.

Emma was everything different in the world that he had never known was possible for him.

She was everything and it would have been very difficult for him to have hurt Norman over her.

But he would have.

He would have done anything humanly possible to make Emma happy and content and healthy.

Emma and her new lungs.

Emma and her new life

Emma and her new him.

 _Emma._

* * *

 **Bradley Martin, wow. She was way on back there, wasn't she? I almost considered writing a little AU for Bradley and Dylan. But I just can't betray Emma like that.**

 **Anyway, thanks to Lana Brown for returning time and time again to this story. You are very kind, sweetie.**

 **See you again soon. We're almost out of White Pine Bay which means much, much more fluff and happiness and sweetness.**

 **:)**


	44. Going Legit

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Going Legit

* * *

Will was spending time with his daughter.

His daughter who was recovering from a double lung transplant.

And Dylan Massett was sitting in the vast cafeteria of the All-Saints Hospital in Portland, Oregon.

Alone.

Cup of coffee cooling in front of him.

Quiet and still.

Grinning.

Seattle.

He was going to Seattle with Emma and her dad.

He wasn't going to be a pot growing, reject bastard incest son in White Pine Bay anymore.

He was leaving. He was going to Seattle.

He was going to be with Emma.

He was going to be a different person.

He was going to be . . .

 _Oh crap._

 _I gotta find a job._

 _Hello, Google search._

 _Seattle, Washington jobs._

 _Healthcare Services Coordinator._

 _No._

 _MCAT Prep Instructor._

 _I don't know what that is._

 _Laboratory Assistant._

 _I'm afraid of that job._

He almost clicked on Laborers for Concrete Construction . . .

 _I know I can do that. I've done it before._

. . . but decided to come back to it.

Scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.

 _Carpet Cleaning Techician._

 _Er, um-_

And then he saw it.

 _Hops Distribution Assistant Manager._

 _Oh. That sounds like selling weed._

 _But legit._

 _That's it._

 _I can do that._

 _I can do that_ well _._

Then he realized . . .

 _Oh crap, I need a tie._

* * *

So he called . . .

"Hello, I'd like to apply to for a job. My name is Dylan Massett . . ."

. . . got the interview . . .

"Okay. Thanks."

. . . did some research . . .

 _Hey, that looks like our sales model. Do you also reserve special pits for people you have to bury under the radar?_

. . . and went out looking for . . .

 _Hello, I'd like to buy this neck strangler, please._

. . . a tie.

* * *

The drive was long and boring.

But Dylan grinned most of way.

Emma had reemerged from her room . . .

"Are you that desperate to see me naked?"

"Maybe."

. . . redressed and all Dylan wanted was to curl up with her.

But she looked worn.

Dark circles were hedging under eyes and her smile was faded and wan.

"I guess I will take a nap. I'm a little tired from the drive."

Dylan nodded amicably and Emma shrugged, somewhat self conscious.

"Great girlfriend, huh, always sleeping."

Her tone was light but Dylan took it deadly serious.

"Emma, come on. You just had surgery."

She nodded, eyes cutting away from him.

"I know."

Dylan tilted his head at her, squinting. Deciding it was time for a taste of her own medicine.

"Hey. You're supposed to be doing what you need to get well. And I'm here to support you. Don't worry about it, okay?"

She smiled for real then and he ducked in for a quick kiss.

"I gotta go anyway."

Her expression pouted for a fraction of a second.

"The farm?"

He cleared his throat.

"Uh, no. Actually, I'm driving to Seattle tonight. I have a job interview in the morning."

Emma's eyebrows raised.

"Really? Wow, that was fast!"

He smiled.

"I'll be back tomorrow."

She nodded and kissed him.

"Good luck."

He grinned.

"Thanks."

* * *

The dread was forming in the pit of his stomach as he sat there at the table. Watching the interviewer size him up.

He was screwed.

This was the _perfect_ job for him.

He already knew how to do it, he was a shoe-in as far as experience.

Except he couldn't prove it.

Because "weed hustler" wasn't something you could put on a resume.

The guy . . .

"Vic Chaney."

"Dylan Massett."

. . . Vic had a good handshake and a polite smile.

But Artful Artifacts was crap on this job.

And Dylan Massett was wasting his time even mentioning it.

And he wanted this job. He _needed_ this job.

For himself.

For Emma.

For a new beginning.

And he was not going to get it.

Not with Artful Artifacts.

He appreciated Will.

The man had tried.

But there was only one thing that gave him a chance in hell of getting this job.

Tell the truth.

"Marijuana Distribution Manager."

Well, telling the best part of the truth.

* * *

"Three month probationary period . . ."

 _Yep._

"Online and on site training . . ."

 _Okay._

"Supervisor check-ins . . ."

 _No problem._

"Okay, Dylan. That's about it."

Dylan allowed himself a small smile as he shook Vic's hand with a gratitude and hopefulness he was coming to associate with the new life that he had been reaching out for ever since Emma had become his beacon in the darkness.

"Thank you so much, Vic. I won't let you down. You have my word."

Vic smiled and nodded and Dylan knew the man still wasn't a hundred percent convinced that he had made the right decision.

But that was okay.

He would prove it.

He would excel at this job, make the guy realise he had made the right decision.

He would do it.

Not for the guy.

But for her.

Himself.

And this new life they were all getting.

* * *

"Do you get benefits?"

"Yeah."

"That's so sexy."

 _Mmm, I'll say it slow. 401k. Retirement plan. Health insurance premiums._

An extremely bouyant Dylan Massett lay on his back on the bed of his beautiful, amazing, supportive and . . .

"I can't believe you told him you were a drug dealer."

. . . slightly teasing girlfriend, Emma Decody.

 _Now, come on, Em. What do you take me for?_

"Marijuana Distribution Manager."

Her relaxed smile and amused chuckle warmed him up almost as much as her gentle caressing of his hand.

The light weight of her head on his knee.

And the warm, casual encouragement she always seem ready to raise him up with.

"Well, I'm glad you told him the truth. And that it went well."

 _Yeah, me too. First try too._

"I'm proud of you."

 _Aww, thanks, Mom. I mean, Emma._

And then he forgot all about the thing he didn't know was his Freudian slip.

Because his girlfriend sat up.

"What's up?"

And started talking about something else entirely.

* * *

 **I was proud of Dylan too. And frankly, a little surprised he got the job. But really happy too.**

 **'Cause this is a guy that's absolutely gonna take this fresh chance and run with it, right?**

 **Well, anyway, thanks for reading!**


	45. Battle Scars Part 2

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Battle Scars Part 2

* * *

A week had passed since Emma's staple removal/giggle explosion incident.

The holes had needed to close before she could remove the bandage.

In the shower.

Carefully.

And reveal.

Later. Not in the shower.

The thin red line.

Which she now was showing to Dylan as they sat on her bed.

Much the same as they had before when she had decided to be truthful with him . . .

". . . didn't really hurt. I was just embarrassed that I had one."

. . . as he had been truthful to his interviewer . . .

"Marijuana Distribution Manager."

. . . because that was the man he was becoming.

". . . thrown you out of the office at that point."

And he had adamantly wanted the job.

So he could provide for Emma.

Honestly. And with integrity.

". . . relationship with my daughter. That's not her future."

Because . . .

"And to be honest, you're too good for that."

. . . they both had futures now.

The future she was now facing.

"So what do you think?"

Scars and all.

Dylan looked openly.

Because it was what he was supposed to do.

Considered.

Because it was what he chose to do.

And spoke.

"I think it looks more comfortable than metal sticking out of you."

She grinned.

"It is."

And then he asked the only question that really mattered to him.

"How does it feel?"

Which seemed to make her happy.

"Better."

Then Emma did something he had not expected.

Yet.

She removed her blouse entirely.

"Emma, wait."

Unbuttoning it.

"Shh."

While he sat in mild surprise.

Rising desire.

And heightened self-conscious restraint.

As his nether regions . . .

 _Boobs on the horizon._

 _Countdown in three . . . two . . ._

. . . tried to override his thinking brain.

"Emma, you don't have to do this."

She smiled easily. Tilted her head at him in a coy manner, cheeks pink.

"I want to. You don't want to?"

"Uh, no, yeah, I do, I just, it hasn't been four to six-"

She interrupted him, shaking her head a little in dismissive amusement.

"Oh, I know. We're not doing _that_. Not yet."

 _She said 'yet'._

 _Hee._

"Um, okay."

And his girlfriend sat partially disrobed in front of her now speechless boyfriend.

 _Whoa_.

His face must have revealed his thought because she blushed only a little brighter.

And then with typical Emma flair, spoke.

"So what do you think?"

Dylan's hungry eyes traveled up from her bare chest up to her collarbone.

Delicate shoulders.

The line of her neck.

The curve of her jaw.

The simple, unaffected beauty of her open face.

"I think you're beautiful, Emma."

She smiled, ducked her head prettily.

Then back up.

And taking a deep breath, reached down without breaking eye contact.

Bringing his hands up to where she wanted them.

"Emma."

Right above her upper waist.

Right on the scar.

He tried not to flinch.

He didn't want to hurt her.

Only held his hands carefully turned out, roughened palms to smooth, warm skin.

Thumbs lightly grazing that thin, red line as she held her perfect-to-Dylan breasts up out of the way.

And he tried to think.

She wanted this.

Because it helped her face her cut-up skin.

Accept it.

Move on with her life.

Enjoy being her.

So he sat.

And asked the only clear question he could muster.

"Does it hurt for me to touch it?"

She shook her head, grin lopsided on her mouth as if she were amused.

"I can barely feel it. The nerves there were severed and still healing so it's kind of like a dead zone. I may get more feeling back in time. The doctors say it's normal."

 _Okay, I'm not hurting her._

Then her eyes darkened, gaze deepened.

"But I can feel this."

And she shifted his hands up.

"Emma."

"Shh."

She kissed him then.

And he stopped talking.

* * *

 **Ahem, I think we'll just leave them there.**

 **Hopefully this is not so much an iced tea chapter and more of an acceptance chapter.**

 **That's what it's meant to be anyway.**

 **I hope you'll let me know.**

 **Thanks for reading and reviewing, Lana Brown and WordWeaver81! I appreciate you so much!**


	46. Hibernation

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Hibernation

* * *

Hibernation

That was what it felt like.

Staying tucked away in the Decody home, surrounded by . . .

"Artful Artifacts. Will Decody, speaking . . ."

. . . what most people probably considered boring everyday life.

But what Dylan Massett knew to be . . .

". . . tea, Dylan?"

"Yeah, sure. Thanks."

. . . a little piece of Heaven on earth.

Staying near Emma's general space as much as he could.

And away from everybody else he knew.

Awaiting the transition, preparing for the change from Dylan Massett, Bastard Unloved Incest Son to Dylan Massett, Person.

He did go out, of course.

Wrapping up loose ends with the farm.

"Hey, I'm getting out of game, going to Seattle. So no more deliveries to the Bates Motel, okay?"

"Sure thing, man. Good luck and all."

Helpfully running the necessary errands.

"Hello. Prescriptions for Emma Decody, please."

"Yes, sir. It'll be just a few minutes."

And of course . . .

"I just came to get some of my stuff."

"Okay. Have fun leaving me."

 _Ugh, it's my life, Nor-_

 _Nope, nope. Don't get sucked in, don't sucked in._

 _Emma, Emma, Emma._

But whatever did he did, whatever frustrations he faced, he always got to go home.

To her.

To Emma.

The first place he had ever truly belonged.

Been wanted.

Accepted.

Just for him.

In a place relatively free . . .

"Emma, did you eat the rest of the fruitcake?"

"Um, yeah. Sorry, Dad."

"Oh well. Maybe the store has some more."

. . . of strife.

And replaced with . . .

"You actually _like_ fruitcake?"

"Yeah, Dylan. Don't you?"

"No. It's gross."

"Well then, come here and maybe I can change your mind."

 _Oh. Mmm, okay. You win. Fruitcake_ is _good._

. . . love and warmth.

And he was happy there.

* * *

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and Lana Brown for your gracious reviews!**

 **Merry Christmas if you celebrate!**


	47. Such a Small Thing

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Such a Small Thing

* * *

Emma Decody was an unstoppable force.

"She doesn't need to lift more than ten pounds."

She could not be contained.

"I know that and you know that."

And the men in her life who loved her in their own ways . . .

"But does _she_ know that?"

. . . were beginning to realize this . . .

"Yeah, I think so."

. . . on a whole new level.

"Well?"

As they had always known it.

"Remind her then."

Because she was, in fact . . .

"You do it."

. . . Emma Lillian Decody.

Coming down the stairs with yet _another_ box Dylan and Will weren't sure she should be carrying.

Will tried.

"Heyyy, let me get that."

Casual-like.

"It's full of scarves and hats."

While Emma shied it away from him . . .

"See?"

. . . and continued on down the steps.

"I'm not gonna break."

Denying Will his God given right to be overprotective of his CF free daughter.

Who was no longer dying.

And Dylan.

 _I don't know, man, she's, uh, building up her endurance again._

 _Ahem._

Who knew better than to try to stop her from anything.

Like last night.

And a wave of lingering passion rippled through him again at just the passing thought . . .

"Please, Dylan, we can be careful."

. . . of their stolen time only hours before.

"If you hurt yourself, I'm gonna kill ya."

Definitely not the smoothest of lines.

But he had been distracted.

She had been pressing herself to him.

Wanting him.

Him wanting her.

After gladly waiting . . .

". . . four to six weeks."

. . . as long as she needed.

"Better to wait til you're all healed up."

 _See, I had this really bad dream._

 _And I don't want it to come true._

But she had insisted.

"Dylan . . ."

And Emma got . . .

"Yes . . ."

. . . what Emma wanted.

"More . . ."

And after letting go and trusting she wasn't pushing herself beyond her boundaries.

"Emma . . ."

He had enjoyed himself too.

"Wow."

Quite a lot actually.

"Yeah."

Until they were both satiated.

"Well, that was a good send off to White Pine Bay."

At least for the time being.

"Definitely."

But he wasn't ready to share _that_ with Will Decody yet.

 _I swear it was her idea._

Thankfully, Emma . . .

"I left boxes of books upstairs though."

. . . kept everybody gladly moving.

"Oh, gee, thanks, sweetie."

Hauling ass to Seattle.

 _Oh thank God, get me out here._

Except . . .

"Will you give this back to Norma? I borrowed it and she left this in the pocket."

. . . Dylan knew he would never really be able. . .

"Yeah, sure."

. . . to escape entirely.

 _Shit_.

* * *

 **I've really got no words for the conflict here.**

 **Well, I do but Dylan's saving them for another time.**

 **The top was fun tho, huh?**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing!**

 **And yes, sweetie, I've got the marriage proposal written, the discovery of the pregnancy, and loads and loads of good sweet stuff to span the gulf between those two years! It almost feels like another story but at the same time, it's all Dylan's so I guess I'll keep it.**

 **Tomorrow, goodbye White Pine Bay! At least for a while. :)**


	48. Peace Out

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Peace Out

* * *

It was early. The sun was beginning its ascent toward the heavens, painting lightening pinks and blues onto the still pale, sleepy atmosphere.

And The Decody/Massett Convoy of Burgeoning Hope, Intentional Happiness, and Free Breathing was finally, _finally_ heading out of White Pine Bay.

Will Decody, the man with the plan, in the lead, piloting his aging grey Honda.

Emma Decody, the girl absolutely _not_ experiencing Phantom Tank Syndrome, thank you very much, following along in her orange VW Bug.

And Dylan Massett, Escaping Bastard Unloved Incest Son, was driving his truck.

The bed of the blue double cab Ford was tarped not to protect fragile marajuana plants. But the family's clothing, household necessities, and few carefully packed boxes of well selected sentimentalities.

Small, furniture laden UHaul trailing along behind him.

Almost none of it was his. But he didn't mind. He was planning on starting fresh and clean in Seattle.

A new man with a new lease on life.

 _You are now leaving White Pine Bay. Please drive safely and come back soon._

 _Huh, no way in Hell._

He drove on for several minutes, pretending the physical sign wasn't a hugely significant mental sign of his conscious decision to abandon his mother and half brother to their codependent, psychotic madness.

 _I tried. I really did. Harder than I ever have before with anything but Emma._

 _But I just . . . I just can't._

A few seconds later, he sent Emma a text.

 _Wow._

And received a reply.

 _I know, right? You okay?_

He thought about it.

 _Yeah. I love you._

 _I love you._

And Dylan Massett smiled most of the drive to Seattle.

* * *

 **Okay, here so ends all the drama throughout seasons 1-4 that I cared to take the effort to revisit. I know I didn't get everything but I tried to get all the stuff that struck me.**

 **We'll leave all that behind (as much as we can, right, Dylan?) and just plunge headfirst into the mostly happiness of their lives in Seattle during their two years of peace until the excrement hits the fan again. Hope you stick around!**

 **Thanks to Dinahray, who's been getting all this stuff emailed to her here and there and STILL chooses to review.**

 **You sweetie.**


	49. Fresh Digs

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Fresh Digs

* * *

"Oh Dad, this is great!"

Will had seen the apartment, driven to Seattle for an in-person walkthrough.

Brought back pictures, floorplan printout.

For Dylan and Emma, it was the first time on site.

And Emma, to say the least, was taken.

"Look at those plate glass windows! It feels like I can see everything!"

Dylan was just taken with her taken with it.

"How did you afford it?"

Glancing over at Dylan, Will shrugged nonchalantly.

"Sometimes life just hands you cake instead of lemons, baby girl."

Dylan smiled.

They had talked.

Him and Will.

"There's about twenty-five thousand left after upping the bribe to the hospital. In light of recent developments, I wanted to offer it back to you again."

Dylan shook his head.

"Not a chance."

Will nodded, as if he had expected as much from the boy who loved his daughter.

"Well, in that case I'm going to use some of it to get a decent place for all of us in Seattle."

Dylan nodded.

"Perfect."

And now, here they were.

Just outside of Seattle, the city itself being well outside their price range.

It wasn't big.

Thousand square feet at the most.

Small eat-in kitchen. Living room hoarding the majority of the window allotment with the aformentioned plate glass.

Part of which slid open to lead onto a small deck overlooking the city of Seattle.

Two bedrooms. Separated by two back-to-back small bathrooms attached to their respective bedrooms.

The bedrooms themselves further removed from the main living space by full size closets.

And Dylan knew.

Will, ever cogizant of his daughter's feelings, had done his best to, within budget, select a living space that would afford her privacy.

Her and her new live-in boyfriend.

Dylan.

Of course, it might also be a little bit for him too.

After all, no matter how welcoming a parent is, those mentally healthy don't want to be subjected to the sexual exploits of their offspring.

Norma would have simply banged on the door . . .

"I never asked to hear my son screwing his girlfriend like a slobbering dog! Keep it down!"

. . . and bellowed like a bullmoose, assuring no more sex would be had for the rest of her offspring's natural born existence.

Will on the other hand . . .

"Figured you two'd take the bigger bedroom if you like."

. . . simply just acted in what Dylan was relievedly coming to realize was a much more normal manner.

"Thanks, Dad."

As well as spent his evenings in the accompaniment of a somewhat more relaxing musical selection . . .

"Never had sex to classical music before."

"Well, come here and let's practice."

. . . than Dylan had previously been accustomed to.

But was very, very willing to give it a shot.

The place was plain. Simple.

With none of the charm, warmth, or character of the humble Decody abode tucked in behind Artful Artifacts.

Yet.

It also lacked the strained, cloying, frequently dysfunctional air of Norma Bates' much more grand, more spacious house.

For which he was supremely grateful.

It was a blank slate.

An empty, cleaned out space.

Ready to be filled up with new life, new possibility.

Just like Dylan Massett himself.

"What do you think, Dylan?" Emma inquired excitedly, turning to him.

He looked at her.

Smiled.

And spoke.

"I like it."

* * *

 **New places always seem so exciting, so full of potential.**

 **Happy 2018, everyone! Something else full of possibility and potential, yay!**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and Emily for your lovely reviews. I very much appreciate your time and effort. :)**


	50. Different Person But Still the Same

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Different Person. But Still the Same

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to be an entirely different person.

Once he got away from all the people who had known him in the 'before' time.

With the exception of Emma and Will.

The two people who knew him at all willing to let him evolve into what he wanted to be.

"I want to cook some steaks for us tonight. Mind if I go out and buy a grill?"

"That's sounds great, Dylan! I'll make some potatoes and salad."

"And I'll, uh, I'll take care of the beer."

Friends.

"Hey, I'm Dylan."

"Nick. Nice to meet you."

"You too."

"Where you from?"

"Uh, all over. South Dakota. Arizona. Oregon. Here."

"Wow. And now you've landed in Seattle. What do you think of the weather?"

"It's, uh, damp."

"Haha, yeah."

Clients.

"Good morning, I'm Dylan Massett."

 _Like to buy some wee-, uh, hops?_

"Oh yes, Mr. Massett, hello."

* * *

But as much as Dylan was _choosing_ to embrace the new life he had somehow been lucky enough to be allowed to pursue with the most amazing girl in the world and her mild mannered, supportive father, he could not quite set down and let go of the heavy lodestone of Norma and Norman Bates.

 _I abandoned him._

 _I abandoned my brother._

 _I left him._

 _With her._

 _He'll never get better with her 'Mother'-ing him to death._

And it ate at him.

He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep.

He couldn't fully enjoy Seattle or Emma or his new life.

Not really.

* * *

"What's wrong, Dylan?"

Because it was always in the back of his mind.

Whispering.

Niggling.

Gnawing.

 _He's never going to get better._

 _Not with her doing her thing._

 _And I just gave up and ran off._

 _Again._

He tried to push it aside, let it go.

Live in the moment.

"Talk to me."

But apparently he wasn't quite as good at being an island as he thought he was.

Emma, always Emma.

There.

Caring about him.

Loving him.

Supporting him.

"What is it?"

Seeing right through him.

 _I abandoned my brother, Emma._

 _Just like when we were younger._

 _I just left him to save my own skin._

 _It's not really his fault the way he is._

 _I don't think he can help it._

 _I don't think he really knows what he does._

 _Might have done._

"I'm worried about them. Norman and Norma. I don't know if they're going to be okay."

Emma, sitting on the couch behind him sitting in the floor.

Emma.

Massaging his neck and shoulders.

His head.

"I . . . I don't know what to do."

"You could reach out. Make contact."

"Do you think I should?"

"I think you should do whatever you need to do to have a clear conscience about all this."

Her fingers were strong and warm and soft on his tense muscles.

"Because . . ."

Kiss on the neck, sweet and light.

". . . you've got too good a start of a life here . . ."

Continued kissing migrating to his earlobe, breath surreshing into the canal.

". . . to make youself miserable over this, Dylan."

He had told her everything about the fight.

His worry over Norman's mental condition.

Norma's safety.

Norma's refusal to see the truth and logic.

He had told her everything.

Except about the earring.

And his very real fears about her mother.

"You do what you've got to do for you to be okay, Dylan."

Another kiss, traveling around now to his throat.

"For us."

 _I don't deserve you._

 _I will deserve you._

 _I_ will _be a good enough person to deserve you._

She ended up in his lap.

And he held her tight.

 _I love you, Emma._

* * *

And so, he did do what he needed to do to clear his conscience.

One day while he was alone in the apartment.

The smell of fresh paint and wet Seattle air clogging his Arizona sinuses.

He called . . .

"Hey, Norman."

. . . his baby brother.

"Mother said you were gone."

And it still hurt like a bitch.

 _Guess a part of her is happy now I'm out of the way finally._

No matter hard he had worked, everything he had tried to do make it okay, he had always been the incest, unloved, bastard son.

She just wanted everything to be nice.

He was a reminder of an entire era of her life when things had not been nice.

When they had moved, she cast aside everything that reminded her of the misery in which she had lived for the entirety of her life previous.

Everything except Norman.

Who, if their names were anything to go by, completed her.

And Dylan was no part of any of that.

And therefore, unwelcome.

The end.

Roll credits

Dylan guessed he understood.

He wouldn't want Caleb, his mother raping, emotional trainwreck of a father-uncle to show up on his doorstep now.

Or ever again.

"Yeah, well, I guess I'm gone to her."

He had promised himself it was over between him and Norma.

Finally.

For real this time.

But then a little part of him had whispered that was so absolutely irrecoverably brutal.

So . . . final.

 _Forever_. _Damn_.

And Emma was showing him the future could hold almost any hopeful possibilities.

And so he . . .

"For now anyway."

. . . relented a little.

At least enough to soften the blow to Norman.

"I doubt she'll reach out to me."

 _She never has before._

Norman seemed to concur.

"No, I mean, not for a while."

 _Thanks for the vote of confidence._

But he couldn't really be mad at Norman.

Not anymore.

The kid was hopelessly entangled in the twisting labrinynth of his own pyschosis.

And the strangling web of his mother's as well.

 _Jesus._

There was just almost no chance for him to get better.

Especially since Norma had folded and let him out of the one place that had done him any good.

But the time for all that discussion had passed. He had tried to talk, to both of them.

Nobody had listened.

Except Romero.

But his puny little determination was nothing compared to fierce, crushing steamroller of Norma and Norman's codependent love for each other.

So Dylan wasn't even going to try this time.

He was just going to . . .

"Well, anyways, I want you to know I'm here for you."

. . . reopen the lines of communication.

"I got a new number . . ."

Yes, he had.

A brand new phone, using a few dollars more of that fifty thousand Caleb had stolen from the beaten nearly to death Chick.

Not to blow money, although he did spring for as much data storage as he could.

To fill up with his new life.

And toss away the old.

The dealer numbers. Weed connections.

Calls from Bradley.

Desperate texts to Norma the night she abandoned Norman for the first time ever.

That stuff he was relieved to lose.

Also regretfully releasing the messages from Emma. The phone calls from Emma.

The first digitally recorded connections with Emma.

Reassuring himself it was all still in his heart.

 _I'm the guy who thinks like this now._

 _Can think like this now._

 _Cool._

Forever.

And reassuring himself that he was starting a new life.

And going to fill it up now with all the good, hopeful things he was beginning to hesitantly envision for himself and his new family.

All the things he was beginning to envision.

Because of Emma.

". . . so you won't be able to reach me at the old one."

But Norman, Norman was his brother.

And still sick.

Still dangerous.

And still . . .

"You and I can still talk."

. . . needed him. Somebody stable.

Dylan couldn't just drop him.

He was his brother.

"If you need anything . . ."

And that meant . . .

". . . just let me know."

. . . carrying the burden of him.

Caring.

As long as he needed him.

Because that was what a good person did.

A good person . . .

"Yes, uh, well, I appreciate that, Dylan."

. . . like Dylan Massett.

 _Okay, okay, good._

"But I think it is probably best if we don't talk anymore. I think that's just what she needs me to do now."

 _What?_

"So perhaps we should just remember all those moments when it was good for all of us. I am sorry and I will miss you, Dylan, but goodbye."

And then the line was dead and he was gone.

 _Oh._

* * *

"Hey, you okay?"

He tried to put on a brave face for her but it felt forced and brittle and sick. Like Norman's whenever he had tried to defend Norma.

So he gave it up and just talked to her straight.

"Yeah. I guess. He just shut me down."

His voice came out quiet and slightly clogged as he spoke.

He rubbed an errant hand across his nose, trying to push across way the aching emotions filling up his throat and his chest.

Emma face, full of compassion and concern, filled his vision as she drew near.

Taking his hand and rubbing it comfortingly with her strong, gentle fingers.

Listening without interruption as he told her the entire conversation.

Still trying to swipe away those emotions that wouldn't go.

No matter how much he pretended they weren't there.

Amd when he was done talking, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug he never wanted to let go of.

Pressed the side of her face to his.

"I'm sorry, Dylan. That sucks."

 _Yeah, a little._

Then she let him go and stepped back to look eye to eye.

And spoke again.

Quiet.

But full of assurity.

"You did what you could. If he wants to let go, let him go for a while. Concentrate on taking care of yourself and enjoying your new life away from all that craziness."

Then she smiled a little sadly as she reached out and caressed the side of his face with a warm, loving hand.

"Don't waste time on someone who doesn't want you. I want you. I love you."

She kissed him sweetly then and . . .

 _That's like what she said when you gave her the letter from her mom that Norman probably killed._

 _I know._

 _That's exactly what you said to her to make her feel better about not being able to find the mom that Norman probably killed._

 _I know._

 _You're a liar a_ _nd a cheat._

 _Shut up._

. . . he tried to let her.

* * *

 **Okay, so I lied.**

 ** _This_ is the end of season 4.**

 **And quite a long chapter for this story, I know. It all just seemed to flow together.**

 **Next time, well have more fun and fluff. I promise. ;)**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for your repeated reviews and all the time you take for this story. You are so very gracious!**

 **See you again next week!**


	51. Living Life, The Decody Way

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Living Life, The Decody Way

* * *

The good thing about college was that Emma Decody could learn anything she wanted to there.

Pursue any course of study.

Fill her mind with any knowledge she so desired.

The bad thing was she, never even being able to dream about life beyond her early twenties, had no idea what that knowledge might _be_.

"What's anthropology?"

"You're asking me?"

But life sometimes smiles upon those who need it.

Will, a professor at the same said college, was in fact, her father.

And as his immediate family member, she could take any class she wanted, any time she wanted, for as long as she wanted.

Free of charge.

"Take all the time you want, baby girl. Enjoy it. Relish it. Soak it all up."

Emma's eyes gleamed at the prospect and she, after gifting him a peck on the cheek, practically skipped off with excitement.

Dylan grinned.

"Looks like, uh, she might take you up on that offer, Will."

The man whose daughter was no longer dying, gazed fondly after her wake.

"I can only hope so."

And took a slow, deep breath in and out.

"It's just so incredible to see her grow and flourish out from under the burden of chronic illness and eventual death."

Then smiled, eyes bright.

"Not have to fight to survive. She can really just live."

Then he moved his attention over to Dylan.

"You did that, Dylan. We wouldn't be here now without you. I would still be helplessly waiting for my daughter to slowly die."

Dylan felt a warm ache in his chest, a smile pulling the corner of his mouth.

"It's because of her. She's amazing."

Will nodded.

"She's about to get even more amazing. She's got so much life to live. There's nothing stopping her now."

And there wasn't.

Thanks to the shadily illegal efforts of her devoted boyfriend, Dylan Massett, Emma Decody had a new lease on life.

And she was _living_ it.

"Dylan, let's go to the Pike Place Market tomorrow!"

"Okay."

"Dylan, have you heard of the Guitar Tornado at the Museum of Pop Culture?"

"Yeah, somebody at work was talking about it the other day."

"Dylan . . ."

CF free and experiencing only the mildest, infrequent bouts of immunosuppressant-induced nausea, she also seemed intent on sampling every curious culinary morsel Seattle had to offer.

". . . Bourbon and Bones has . . ."

"Welcome to Walrus and the Carpenter . . ."

". . . the Crab Pot again!"

The aforementioned medication she would take daily for the rest of her life did unfortunately reduce her appetite to the extent that she and her ready and willing consort . . .

". . . ice cream!"

. . . frequently shared a single dish . . .

". . . um, Artisan . . . Bread- _zel_?"

. . . making Dylan Massett glad he had a decent . . .

". . . dare tell Dad I'm drinking coffee and not tea!"

. . . working metabolism.

Once, she stopped.

A muted expression on her face.

"I just realized I'm the only one not contributing income to this family but I'm the one trying to spend it all."

Will laughed, patting her hand.

"We'll tell you when we need to start reining in the horses, Emma. Now, where are you two off to this weekend?"

And she beamed.

"Well, I was thinking about taking a trip to the Hoh Rainforest Trail at the Olympic National Park?"

Dylan shrugged, smiling.

"Sounds great. When do you want to leave?"

* * *

And he relished watching her go.

Watching her breathe.

Watching her live.

He loved it.

And he loved her.

Her dark eyes sparkled more than ever now.

Her intelligence and wit were uplifting and challenged him in the best ways.

Her body felt great, warm and inviting when he lay in bed with at night with her, drifting toward sleep that more and more often was peaceful and content and happy.

Her laugh was no longer followed up by a stifled cough or gasp of quietly desperate air.

He had loved her when she was sick and literally dying.

When she was hospitalised and frankensteined up to save her life.

And he loved her now . . .

"Dylan, come on!"

. . . even though sometimes . . .

"Hurry, Dylan!"

. . . he had a little trouble . . .

"Dylan-"

. . . keeping up with her.

But he never disparaged her the excitement and enthusiasm and joy of a life lived out of shadow of Death.

Her regularly scheduled respiratory appointments always showed her gunrunning-procured lungs to be in excellent working order.

Without a hitch or a snag.

She always felt healthy and ready and well.

* * *

Except when she didn't.

 _Achoo!_

"Gesundheit."

"Thank you."

 _Achoo!_

"Gesundheit."

"Thank you."

 _Achoo!_

"Are you okay?"

Emma nodded, pocketing her third crumpled tissue.

"Yeah, I think I'm just getting a . . . cold."

Dylan inspected her casually.

Minutely.

Intensely.

From a distance.

With hawk-like vision.

"Do you need to call your doctor?"

She shrugged, sniffling a little as she did.

"No, I'm good."

And then she cleared her throat.

And coughed.

 _Oh shit._

And keep his his poker face supportively and calmly set.

His eyes, apparently however, . . .

"Dylan, it's okay. It's just a cold."

. . . were not.

Will entered the room at the exact inopportune moment . . .

"She coughed."

. . . and Dylan Massett immediately spilled his guts like a prison convict.

Transplanted Brit Will might have looked mildly alarmed.

"Are you alright, Emma?"

Turning to his slightly miffed daughter.

She nodded, expression unconcerned and a little amused.

"Yeah, I'm just getting a cold, that's all."

And then Will Decody . . .

"Dylan, would you please check her blood-oxygen count?"

. . . took control . . .

"Dad!"

. . . and called the doctor.

* * *

She was fine.

 _Achoo!_

Other than having a slight cold.

 _Achoo!_

O2 count at steady ninety-eight percent just like always.

 _Achoo!_

Though the apartment seemed to be running low on . . .

 _Achoo!_

. . . aloe Kleenex.

Will and Dylan, despite the doctor's reassurances . . .

"She seems fine, just watch her for aggressive symptoms. "

. . . still worried.

"Emma, sweetie, why don't you stay home from class today?"

But Emma . . .

"Why? I'm fine."

. . . determinedly shooed them away.

"Because you're sick."

Dylan tried to back Will up.

But Emma rolled her eyes, patting Dylan casually across the cheek.

"No, when I was dying of CF and couldn't breathe, _then_ I was sick."

And then, before one or the other of them could launch another gently loving and firmly caring dissertation as to how dangerous . . .

"I mean, love you both and all but . . ."

. . . even common ailments could be . . .

". . . seriously, everytime you got colds and complained about how bad you felt . . ."

. . . she put them gently and lovingly in their respective places.

". . . _this_ is what you were talking about?"

Will Decody and Dylan Massett stood, caught and skewered.

Figuratively, of course.

"I mean, I can breathe all day with this cold and not even blink twice!"

 _She's not wrong,_ Dylan thought vaguely. _She's doesn't even have to have someone pound on her chest to breathe anymore. It's awesome._ She's _awesome._

Then as he was thinking all these silent thoughts, Emma went to them one at a time, starting with her father.

"Thank you for looking out for me."

Gifting sincere hugs and kisses upon their cheeks.

"But I'm fine, I really am."

Reassuring and loving them.

"And I understand better than you how serious it can get."

As she was always did.

"So I'm going to take really good care of myself always."

And Dylan and Will, brave smiles pasted upon their faces, had to believe she was telling the truth that she was okay.

"I promise."

And she was.

And she did.

* * *

 **See, I told you there'd be some fun stuff coming up. And more is on the way!**

 **Let's enjoy it for a while, shall we?**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and Lana Brown for your generous reviews!**


	52. Happy, Happy Birthday

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Happy, Happy Birthday

* * *

". . . birthday from all of us to you!"

Emma had ready gone above and beyond the call of girlfriend embarrassment duty.

"- wish it was our birthday -"

Dylan never even saw it coming.

"- we could party too!"

He didn't even know she knew his birthday.

"- happy birthday, may all your dreams come true!"

The discussion had never come up.

"- wish it was our birthday so we could party too! Hey!"

But here they were.

Sitting in a _very_ public restaurant, Dylan and Emma having just shared, as was their custom, a delicious cheeseburger and fries.

Will, fish and chips.

Ready to pay for the check.

And suddenly-

 _Uh oh, somebody's gonna get it-_

The clapping had begun.

"One, two, three, four-"

It never occured to him that somebody was _him_.

"Happy, happy birthday-"

Then he had turned to look at the woman of his dreams sitting next to him.

Her warm eyes sparkling with mischief.

Clapping right along with the slightly off key singers approaching them.

"Em-" he'd started to say.

"Oh, wait!" she interrupted suddenly.

And whipped out a riotously colorful plastic birthday hat with streamers on the top and plopped it on his head, adjusting the rubber string firmly under his bearded chin.

". . . party too-"

And there Dylan had sat, hatted and trapped.

"- birthday, may all your dreams come true-"

Grinning at the girl next him, laughing and clapping along with the waiters and waitresses roped into singing 'Happy Birthday' to a complete stranger without extra pay.

"Hey!"

The ginormous slice of cake was double chocolate with chocolate frosting.

A candle.

About a _billion_ calories.

And instant diabetes.

Dylan loved it.

Blowing out the single candle to a smattering of applause all around the restaurant, he then looked at Emma as the wait staff dispersed.

"Seriously?"

She nodded, eyes agleam.

"Did you know about this?" Dylan directed to a grinning Will.

"Oh, Dylan, the bonds between a father and his daughter are nigh unbreakable."

Dylan raised an eyebrow.

"She threatened me with 'Keeping Up with the Kardashians'."

Dylan picked up a his fork, carefully selecting his first bite.

"How did you even know my birthday? I never told you."

Emma's expression was appropriately smug.

"I went into your wallet and looked at your driver's license. I wanted it to be a surprise."

The cake was delicious, moist and decadently sweet.

Dylan grinned around it.

"Sneak."

And slid the still mountainous slice of cake toward the middle of table for his family . . .

 _"Okay, Dylan, hurry up and blow out the candle so we can cut the cake."_

 _"Oh, thanks, Mom! Is it chocolate?"_

 _"No, it's vanilla. Norman likes vanilla."_

 _"But . . . it's_ my _birthday."_

 _"Oh stop complaining, there's chocolate on the frosting. Do you want this cake or not?"_

 _"Yes, Mom."_

. . . to enjoy as well.

* * *

"That cake was delicious, Emma. Thank you."

She grinned, quite proud of herself.

"I really embarrassed you, didn't I?"

He shrugged, taking off his shirt and tossing it in the hamper.

"Yeah. But it was awesome."

He sat on the foot of the bed and pulled off his socks.

Feeling her eyes upon him and liking it.

"Well, next year, we'll plan something together. Invite some friends over and have a party. I just wanted to do something special this time."

She came over and placed herself in his lap.

"I love you, Dylan."

"I love you too, Emma."

And kissed him.

He let her, reveling in the feel of her fingers through his hair.

Wrapping his arms around her.

 _Emma._

The she broke the kiss, the second mischievous grin of the evening on her face.

"Well, _since_ I embarrassed you, I guess I really _should_ make it up to you."

He grinned back.

"Oh yeah, what were you thinking?"

She leaned against him, pushing him down on the bed.

"Oh, I might have a few ideas."

And started kissing him again.

He gladly let her.

But then when she started heading further south, he took pause.

"Emma, wait, you don't have to-"

She drew back up, kissing him again in a way that made him helpless to resist.

And murmuring in between.

"It's okay. I want to. I've never done it before. I want to try it, don't you want me to try it?"

 _Is this a trick question?_

"Uh, yeah, uh, I just-"

She grinned eagerly at him.

"Good. Now lay back."

So he did.

 _Oh . . . wow._

And it made them both happy.

It was a . . .

"Are you _sure_ you've never done that before?"

"Yeah, there are all sorts of things I can do now that I can breathe."

"I noticed."

And she giggled.

. . . very good birthday.

* * *

 **Know what the sexiest part of this chapter is? When Dylan throws his dirty clothes in the hamper, ha!**

 ***snark, snark***

 **Anyway, thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing and thanks to all the silent readers as well!**


	53. Thantophobia and Victorian Literature

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Thantophobia and Victorian Literature

* * *

Will and Emma were in their classes for the evening, respectively teaching and learning.

Dylan was alone in the apartment.

"Oh my, whatever shall you do?"

"Oh, you know me. I'll get up to something."

A roll of those beautiful, dark eyes.

Totally calling his bluff.

"Yeah, sure you will."

Them exchanging smiles, goodbye hugs and kisses.

Him watching her go.

It happened on occasion.

Being a free agent for a few hours.

Sometimes invited by the guys out to the local bar after work.

"Hey, man, come have a drink."

 _Um . . ._

Him, remembering that he could hold his liquor.

And remembering that sometimes he couldn't.

"Naw, man, I gotta go. Thanks though."

And it was difficult for him at first.

He didn't like being without one or the other, preferably Emma, around the same air space.

It made him anxious.

Made everything he had worked so hard for feel like . . .

"She's not coming back."

"You're different. She's not going to leave you."

. . . it was all a dream.

A dream that would evaporate without warning . . .

". . . floating outside my body."

. . . leaving him alone in the world without Emma's light.

He would wander from room to room, looking at all the things belonged to one or the other or all of them.

Touching Will's books.

Smelling Emma's scarf.

Checking and rechecking her bottles of medications.

Her upcoming respiratory appointment dates.

His phone for messages, though the volume was already turned up so he would not miss a text.

Typing messages to her.

 _Hey, how you doing?_

 _Hey, what's up?_

 _Hey, I miss you._

 _Hey, when are you coming home?_

Erasing them, never sending them.

Not wanting to be 'that' guy.

Wanting to trust, wanting to believe.

That he was not going to lose her.

That she wouldn't die in a car wreck.

Be kidnapped.

Turn out to be a figment of his needy, desperate imagination.

Trying to involve himself.

Movies.

 _Yeah, Leonidas, I'd check with Emma too before kicking that guy into a pit. She'd probably say no._

Games.

 _Candy Crush? This is stupid. Hang on, I got one. Another. Another. Hey triple score-_

Cooking.

 _Oh jeez, I could burn water. Thank goodness we have a microwave._

Cleaning.

 _Bathrooms are disgusting._

Working.

 _Let's see, how can I sell more wee-, hops._

Anything.

To pretend he wasn't just waiting around for her to come home.

Sometimes he took long walks.

Sometimes he drove around in the truck, listening to music.

But he never passed the time by sleeping, no.

He would dream of searching for her . . .

 _"Emma? Emma? Emma, where are you?"_

. . . being unable to find her . . .

 _". . . number you have dialed has been disconnected or no longer in service . . ."_

. . . or finding her . . .

 _"How could you, Dylan?"_

. . . standing with her dead, rotting mother . . .

 _"You knew Norman did something to her, didn't you?"_

. . . them both judging him, damning him for his cowardice his weakness, his selfishness.

Audrey's face, rotting and grey.

Emma's face, so sad, so hurt.

 _"Why didn't you tell me, Dylan? Why did you lie?"_

And then them vanishing. Him being left alone in a void, surrounding by silent, still emptiness forever.

 _"Emma, wait, I'm sorry! Emma, please don't leave me! Please come back!"_

So no, Dylan Massett did not sleep when they were out and he was alone.

He learned to occupy himself or pretend to in other ways.

Until . . .

"Hey, how was your evening? What went on?"

"Oh, you know, nothing much."

* * *

And then sometimes it was just him and Will.

Which should have been weird.

 _Hope we didn't keep you up last night._

 _She, uh, asked me to do that._

 _Ahem._

And it might have been.

Except Will Decody wasn't trying to make Dylan feel like a cornered rabbit in a dog fight.

"So, Dylan, how's the job? Better than selling marajuana?"

Dylan chuckled, sipping the coffee before him.

"Ha, yeah. I don't have to spend all my time looking over my shoulder. It's nice to be normal."

Normal.

Now there was a word he hadn't formerly associated with himself.

Not truly.

Probably not still.

 _How's your estranged wife? The one Norman might have done something to?_

 _Heard from her yet? No? Damn._

"How's Victorian literature?"

Will Decody tilted his head in an nonchalant manner.

"Oh, strangely similar to taxidermy actually. Trying to preserve beauty out of old things people once valued."

Dylan nodded although he wasn't exactly sure what the man has just said.

"I've been thinking about you alot lately. You and Emma. You both come from situations where you could easily complain about your lots in life and seek easy paths."

 _Easy paths like leaving White Pine Bay instead of doing something about Norman?_

"I've never known my daughter to take the easy path." Will smiled fondly. "And you don't seem to either."

 _I've never known Emma to complain about anything without trying to fix it._

"'Some folk want their luck buttered'," the balding Brit concluded. "You two don't seem to do that. I respect you for it. It's a good quality to have."

His tone was casual but Will DeCody's gaze was direct and sincere.

And made Dylan's guilty heart duck its head away in shame.

Opportunely, Emma walked in with her purse, a full grocery bag, and her beautiful smile.

"Hey, I'm home!"

Then she paused.

"You two look serious," she observed curiously. "What are you talking about?"

Dylan wanted to rush to her as his safe place. But instead he answered her question.

"Uh, buttered luck."

Emma grinned easily.

"Ah, Victorian literature strikes again."

Will gestured with his tea cup.

"What's in the bag?"

Their light grinned secretively.

"Dinner! It's a surprise."

* * *

 **Thantophobia- the fear of losing someone you love.**

 **And the 'buttered luck' line is a quote from Thomas Hardy. Victorian literature version, not Mad Max version. And I really like it.**

 **And yes, I do agree Dylan is being a little co-dependent here. I think it's normal considering his Norma experiences. And just an adjustment period; he'll get better.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and WordWeaver81 for your reviews! So kind!**


	54. Not Being a Bates

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Not Being a Bates

* * *

"So, Mattie in my psych intro class, you know, the one with the nose ring . . ."

Emma loved to meet people.

Talk to them.

Chat.

Get the downlow.

She met new people all the time at college.

In the grocery store.

On the street.

Emma Decody could make friends with a fence post.

A tilted, splintered, cranky fencepost.

They were drawn to her.

Her bright, energetic, warm fire.

People, not fenceposts.

She met new people all the time.

". . . throws her kiwi at Lani and it went right into her hummus . . ."

And Dylan was happy for her.

The girls were nice.

The guys were too.

And sometimes he fleetingly worried if one of them would sweep her off her feet and take her away from him.

Although . . .

"Come here, Dylan, I need a hug."

. . . he supposed that was just the result of years and years of deep seated paranoia and abandonment talking.

Emma was completely trustworthy.

It was Dylan that was the dysfunctional one, not Emma.

And he was trying to make himself better.

He worked at it everyday.

And one way to work at it was to learn to trust Emma Decody.

Trust that whatever she said, she meant.

Which took some time.

But Dylan was determined.

"So, uh, Jackson is a pretty good guy then?"

Trying to sound casual.

Unconcerned.

Supportive in his girlfriend's collegiate experiences.

"Sure," Emma'd shrug. "But nothing compared to you."

And then she'd wrap her arms around him and hug him and kiss him.

And he would learn to trust her a little bit more.

* * *

"Dylan, you need to get out. Have fun. Enjoy your life."

He stared at her blankly.

"I do enjoy my life."

Emma shook her head.

"I mean out there in the world. With people. Other people."

He shifted, feeling anxious.

"Oh, um, okay."

Dylan had always been moderately outgoing. Social.

Good at figuring out how to make people like him.

Fit in.

Be accepted.

Because his family sure as hell wasn't going to accept him.

And other people would fill the emptiness his family had left in him.

Now that he had Emma, he didn't have any more emptiness.

And he didn't want to lose her.

So sometimes he kind of . . .

"Hey, Dylan, want to go out for a beer?"

"No, thanks. Gotta get home."

. . . forgot about other people.

In favor of the only one who really mattered.

And Emma, of course, saw right through him.

Putting her delicate, strong hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with an expression of patience and only slight irritation.

"No, Dylan, I mean you need to make friends. Have other people your life other than just me and Dad."

He still stood, feeling anxious and suddenly without anchor.

"When Dad and I are still at school, don't just sit around here waiting for us. Go out. Do something fun."

She leaned closer, both solemn and challenging.

"Come on, you don't want to make me the Norma to your Norman, do you?"

 _Ugh, oh god, no._

 _And, point taken._

 _And, just so you know, probably never going to have sex again._

 _Like, ever._

 _. . ._

 _Oh okay, who am I kidding? Come here._

And so, upon Emma's encouragement, Dylan tried to be less socially constrained.

"Hey, man, we're going for a beer after work. Want to come?"

"Sure. Let me grab my jacket."

"Cool."

And he did like it.

Not the beer so much, for he never took more than a sip or two.

 _I am not sloshing home to Emma. Oh god, no._

But the company.

" . . . and I said, no, man. _Escalator_ not _elevator_."

And the hot wings weren't too bad either.

"Alright, so who's your team?"

"Uh, who's playing?"

"Whoever, man.

"Ha, okay. Let's see . . ."

* * *

 **Short and sweet little chap here.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 **Thank you, Lana Brown. You never seem to get bored of this story no matter how long it goes on. I really appreciate that!**

 **More sweet stuff on the way!**


	55. Emma, Emma, Emma

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Emma, Emma, Emma

* * *

Checking emails, making notes.

Emma, elbow deep in writing an essay for Introduction to Liberal Studies.

Working her jaw adorably as she squinted in concentration at the computer screen.

Catching him watching her from across the room, her frown evaporating as he smiled first.

Getting back to work, finishing up.

Putting down the phone, grabbing the peanut butter and bread.

Catching her watching him, him unable to help himself.

Grinning in mid-chew around a mouthful of sandwich.

 _What? This_ is _my sexy face._

* * *

Bowling with new friends.

Emma, seeming to enjoy herself immensely, having never taken the opportunity to play before.

Guttering almost every ball, not appearing to care in the least because . . .

"Okay, Hoppity Hops, you're up!"

. . . she was too busy mischievously changing everyone's bowling names on the group screen.

"That's you, bro!"

"What?"

Turning to the wide eyed lung warrior herself.

"Don't look at me, I didn't do anything."

Innocent faced as the day she was born.

Unable to hold it and bursting into the smile and laughter that always warmed his heart so much.

Sipping suds, but not alot, never going back to being _that_ guy again.

Joking around, laughing.

Singing silly to the constant stream of slightly deafening pop songs playing overhead.

Phantom Tank inexplicably throwing a strike on the very last round.

Walking away from her lane without even looking.

Turning and seeing the clobbered, downed, defeated pins.

Screeching in glee, launching herself into her excited/terrified boyfriend's embrace.

 _Emma, your scar!_

Wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

Planting a humungous kiss on him to the playful cheers and whistles and claps of half the bowling alley.

 _Oh my god, you're going to scare me to death! Don't do that!_

* * *

Watching a movie.

Something modern and flashy, not black and white and brittle like the ones Norma taught Norman to watch.

Relaxed and content and happy.

Emma shifting positions to cross legged, taking a sip of her water.

Tugging the homemade quilt up further over her to ward off the damp Seattle chill.

Then turning to him, grinning.

Eyes dark and bright at the same time.

 _I love you, Emma._

Her hand sneaking out from under the covering to clasp his.

Tug it under the blanket to her bared thigh, just above the knee.

Where she wanted him to start.

And him.

Happy to oblige.

Bury his face in her soft fall of auburn hair, his lips on her neck.

Her surreshes of pleasure filling up his ears and heart and brain with love.

* * *

Sitting with a steaming cup of morning tea.

Hair messy.

Face sleepy and yawning.

She was beautiful

She was perfect.

She was Emma Decody and . . .

 _I want to do this forever._

. . . he loved her more than anything.

Not the first time he had thought it.

Smiling all the same.

Her noticing of course.

She noticed everything.

"What?"

Him, sleeping pants and t-shirt rumpled as well, smiled again.

"You look awesome."

Her smiling in derision as if she didn't quite believe him but wasn't going to argue with compliments.

"Thank you, you're not too bad yourself."

Him turning then and opening the fridge.

Looking for anything that _wasn't_ blackberries.

* * *

A nice little coffee shop.

Full of pastries and hot beverages.

And Emma.

Sitting there.

Back against the brick fireplace.

Legs up on him.

Not knowing how long they had been there.

Not caring.

Just talking

Laughing.

Letting everything around them go.

College girls a few tables away.

Giggling. Laughing.

Reminiscing about wild, silly times gone by.

Casting Dylan furtive glances that he didn't notice, couldn't care less about.

Because all there was in the world was Emma.

Emma, dark eyes bright and lively.

Smiling.

Laughing.

Talking.

Breathing.

And happy to be with him.

Not knowing what she was thinking, except when she told him.

But knowing when the thought arrived in his head.

 _I'm going to ask her to marry me._

Opening his mouth.

 _I need a ring._

Closing his mouth.

 _I should really talk to Will._

Emma sipping her tea, pausing.

"What?"

Him realizing he was grinning at her.

Big and dopey.

And completely in love.

And very, very happy.

"Nothing."

* * *

"Uh, Will, I'd like to talk to you about something."

The man himself, glasses slid down his nose, Victorian literature book in one hand.

Turning to him.

Warm. Friendly.

Unsuspecting.

"What can I do for you, Dylan?"

Dylan was still terrified.

"I, uh, I, ahem, . . . I want to ask Emma to marry me."

Will DeCody's dark eyebrows raised subtly in mild surprise.

"Oh. Well. That's quite a step."

And Dylan's nerves overrode his mouth.

"Well, I've wanted to for a while but I wanted to make sure this job panned out so I could be stable for her and I wanted her to be fully recovered, I mean I know she can't ever truly be but . . ."

Will smiled, stopping Dylan's onslaught of words.

As if he already understood.

"Have you talked to her about it yet?"

Dylan shook his head.

"Ah, no. I, uh, I thought as her father, I should, . . . well, I wanted to . . . I mean, I know she can make her own decisions and everything but . . . I just want all of us to be on good terms so . . ."

Dylan shrugged helplessly and Will Decody graciously came to his future son-in-law's rescue.

"Well, that shows alot of integrity, Dylan. I appreciate that."

He paused, causing Dylan's anxiety to skyrocket.

Then Will DeCody placed a firm, reassuring hand on his left shoulder.

And spoke.

"You're a fine young man, Dylan. And I'm glad Emma loves you. I'd be honored for you to marry my daughter."

Relief poured through him and he visibly relaxed.

"Thanks, Will."

Will nodded.

"Do you have a ring yet?"

Dylan shook his head.

"No. I was just, uh, trying to take it a step at a time."

Will nodded casually and gestured.

"You're welcome to buy your own if you wish but I've got her gran's old wedding ring you might want to consider. We could get it resized to fit Emma."

Will riffled through a box or two before pulling out a small, modest diamond ring wrapped in soft cloth.

He held it aloft and the light caught its sparkle.

Dylan nodded.

"That'd be great. Thank you."

Will smiled and Dylan shuffled.

"Well, you better get going. Got big things to do."

And Dylan, nervous and excited, went.

* * *

 **Sugary sweetness, I hope?**

 **Oh Lana Brown, you know what I'm going to say! Thank you! *hugs***


	56. Forever

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Forever

* * *

They were riding the ferry when he did it.

Not very romantic sounding, but Dylan Massett had been racking his brain for just the right time to pop the question.

Nothing seemed to fit.

Everything seemed too public, too much pressure.

Too pretentious.

Too cheesy.

They had ridden the ferry before.

Sat inside.

Ambled among the walkways.

Stood at the railing like they were now.

Her leaning against the metal, staring out over the water.

Him behind, arms wrapped comfortably around her.

Strands of her beautiful auburn hair tickling his face.

Air cooling with the waning day.

The water below, lapping and undulating.

Ever in motion. Ever constant.

Ever changing.

Ever there.

Ever.

Forever.

That he was a word he liked.

Forever.

Forever with Emma.

That was what he wanted.

They had been in Seattle six months, the best six months of his entire life thus far.

The most peaceful, most constant. The happiest.

She hadn't made any suggestion, any hint that she wanted him to propose to her.

No longing looks at engagement rings or sad smiles at couples getting engaged in restaurants.

No sifting through wedding magazines, no pointed pauses at boutiques.

She seemed happy and content with the way things were between them.

This was all Dylan.

He wanted to be with her.

He wanted to marry her, be bound to her.

He wanted the permanency.

He wanted the lifetime.

He could only hope that it was what she wanted too.

 _Here goes nothing._

And so, with Seattle approaching behind them, Puget Sound below, Mt. Rainer beside, and a beautiful sunset painting the sky in pastel reds and blues above, Dylan Massett took a breath.

And whispered to his amazing, living, _breathing_ girlfriend.

"It's beautiful."

She blinked heavily, as if in a dream, and murmured a wordless reply.

And Dylan continued.

"Not as beautiful as you though."

She smiled, snuggling back against him.

And he wrapped her up a little closer.

"You're everything to me, Emma. I never want to do anything but make you happy."

Carefully he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the ring Will had offered him days before.

The one Dylan had been carrying in his pocket every day since, waiting for the right moment to present itself.

He brought it around to Emma's line of sight as he spoke, unable to keep the tremble entirely out of his voice.

"Will you marry me?"

He felt her intake of breath.

Saw her hand raise to her mouth.

Then she turned in his arms and he dropped to one knee, heirloom looped through his forefinger so as not to drop it in the chilly waters of the Pacific.

Emma's face was a picture of surprise and delight as she gazed down at him.

"Dylan?"

He couldn't help the smile spreading over his face as he spoke again.

"I love you, Emma. Will you marry me?"

He held the ring up to her, an offer of his devotion and heart forever.

Even though she already had it anyway.

"Oh, Dylan, yes! Yes, I will marry you!"

His heart exploded with joy as she held out her left hand and he slipped the ring on her third finger, feeling himself shaking as he did.

"It's your grandma's. Your dad gave it to me. It might not fit but I can get it resized if I need to."

She gaped at him, looking even more shocked as he rose.

"You talked to my dad?! What did he say?!"

She was gripping his hands with a strength only she could have.

"I told him I wanted to ask you to marry me and I wanted to talk to him about it because I wanted us all to be okay. He said he was glad. I hope that was okay."

And her beautiful smile widened.

"Oh, Dylan! Yes, it's okay! It's wonderful! You're wonderful!"

And then she kissed him passionately.

Melting him completely as relief and happiness poured through him.

They kissed for several long, wonderful moments, heedless of anything but each other.

Breaking apart, much as they had done on the banks of the White Pine Bay lake cabin, Dylan Massett and Emma Decody gazed into each other's eyes.

And broke into quiet, shared laughter.

 _I love you, Emma._

 _I love you, I love you, I love you._

 _Emma._

Who was now the same direct, lively person Dylan had first fallen in love with, spoke up.

"So, when do you want to get married?"

They laughed together again at what was clearly their mutal eagerness.

And Dylan gestured toward the wheelhouse.

"Well, I've heard ship captains can perform marriage ceremonies. Want to go for it?"

He said it in a joking manner, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

Meant it in a joking manner . . .

 _"Don't pressure me. For anything."_

. . . but only if she did.

Emma's eyes gleamed and flashed, her face overbright, still half laughing as she whipped her head from him to the wheelhouse and back.

"Seriously? Dad would hit the roof!"

 _Yeah, there's that._

Then Emma seemed to nearly explode in a burst of light and joy.

"We'll give him a cup of tea before we tell him! Come on, let's go!"

And grabbing his hand, pulling him toward the aforementioned wheelhouse.

Dylan hung back.

"Wait, Emma. I don't want you to do something you're not ready for. We can wait and talk to your dad."

She turned and kissed him.

"We will. We'll get married and have him there. But this one's for us!"

She looked so excited and happy and beautiful.

"If you want to."

And all Dylan wanted was her.

"Okay."

Emma grinned, breathless and exultant.

"Come on!"

* * *

". . . take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"And do you, Emma, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

"Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

And no kiss had ever been so sweet.

* * *

 **Okay, so according to my research, ship captains aren't really supposed to do this and the marriages are not always legally binding.**

 **But I got impromptu married in the rain at a renaissance festival by a wood elf named Puck.**

 **Then a month later, we got married "for real" by a church minister.**

 **The first ceremony was better.**

 **And we've been married for almost seventeen years.**

 **So suck it, naysayers. ;)**


	57. Tying Up Loose Elephants

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Tying Up Loose Elephants

* * *

They did sit him down.

Give him tea.

Earl Grey, perfectly steeped.

Poured into his favorite cup.

And sitting down, the three of them together at the table.

Like a family.

Two of whom who had just spontaneously eloped on a Seattle ferry at six in the afternoon the day . . .

"Let's go ahead and talk to him. If we wait, it'll just make it worse."

"Yeah, okay. I mean, he knows I was going to ask you anyway so it's not going to be entirely a surprise, right?"

"Right. Okay. Ready?"

"No."

"Me neither."

. . . before.

He took it pretty well.

All things considered.

Seeming to choose to be happy.

For his only daughter.

Who was no longer dying of CF.

Sitting across from him, eyes shining and happy.

 _What could he say, really?_ Dylan thought.

Hoped.

 _Hey, I ran off and got married, Norma. I mean, Mom._

 _Oh well, that's nice. I would have loved to have been there. But you didn't invite me. I'm only your mother, nobody to think about when you make important, life changing decisions. Just the slag who cooked your food and washed your clothes and wiped your butt and gave you life after your father, my brother, raped me. Nobody important enough to make contact with when you decide to throw your life away on another human being._

"It sounds lovely, it really does."

And he smiled, looking only a bit regretful that he had not been in attendance.

"We, uh, we realize it wasn't really binding without the proper documents," Dylan admitted somewhat sheepishly.

Emma took over and he relievedly let her.

"So we thought we could get dressed up and go to the court house and make it legal."

She paused, then reached out her hand to him.

"Will you come with us?"

Will Decody shot his daughter a slightly wry glance.

"Oh, am I invited to this one?"

She smiled gently.

"Dad . . ."

He patted her offered hand then.

"Of course I'll come, baby girl. I'd be honored to. I'm proud of you."

His gaze shifted to Dylan then.

"I'm proud of you both and that's the truth."

Emma half rose . . .

 _This is the way a family should be._

. . . and hugged her father.

"Thank you, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, Emma."

Dylan, watched them with a small smile, very grateful to finally be a part of something truly good.

Which he did not deserve.

* * *

So, they went to the court house two days later and did the thing "right".

It didn't quite have the magic of the spontaneous ferry trip.

But Dylan didn't care.

She was beautiful and she was perfect and he loved her.

They said the words and signed the papers.

Had their kiss.

As Will looked on in seeming contentment and peacefulness.

And at some point, Dylan turned to his blushing bride and spoke.

"Hey, I think I'm really starting to get the hang of this. Where do you want to get married next week?"

And she laughed.

And that was beautiful too.

* * *

Life went on for the next six months.

Emma went to college classes and enjoyed breathing the air.

Dylan went to work and never got shot at once.

And Will guided sleep deprived college students through the swirly, high browed language of the Victorian . . .

"Now help me out here, ladies and gentlemen, what would one mean when saying "Bitch the pot."?"

"Professor!"

"So you mean to say it is below all of you to simply pour tea?"

"Professor?"

. . . era.

All in all, it was a wonderfully peaceful time of their lives.

And Dylan Massett was more than grateful for it.

* * *

He thought about the earring from time to time.

More than he would have liked to.

Wished Audrey Decody would call or write or email or even show up on their door out of the blue.

Raise all kinds of hell.

Upset Emma (just a little).

Turn Will into a seething cesspool of righteous British indignation.

Anything, just so he would know she was alive.

Alive and not dead, not killed by Norman.

A notification from a distant relative or long lost friend.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, love, but Audrey died. Squashed by an elephant in India. Terrible tragedy, that. Elephant was nigh inconsolable for days."

 _Hey, Norman not taken a trip to India recently, have you? No? Awesome, thanks, bro . . . what? No, I don't want to hear about Norma. Okay, thanks, man. Peace._

Anything at all.

But there never was a word murmured, a hint, a clue.

There was nothing.

And so he carried it inside him, the guilt, the abiding fear.

Tried to ignore it.

Because life in Seattle was good, great in fact.

And he wasn't about to screw it up and lose Emma now.

Not for anything in the world.

* * *

 **So finishing up this little story arc here. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 for so graciously reviewing!**


	58. That Truly Special Connection

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

That Truly Special Connection

* * *

Dylan and Emma were sitting on the couch in an otherwise person empty Seattle apartment.

"You know one of the many, _many_ things that turn me on about you?"

He grinned, feeling the blush travel over his skin.

"No, but I like where this conversation is heading."

She laughed then leaned forward, nuzzling his neck.

"Your smell."

He felt his lower region start to tighten and respond as it always did whenever Emma touched him with intention.

"For so long, everything I smelled was through a plastic tube. Even when I took the tubes out, it was like they were still there."

She was kissing his neck she spoke, punctuating every few syllables with a sensous kiss.

"Now I can smell _everything_. All the time. And I just can't get enough of your smell."

 _Oh, neither can I. I mean, of you._

"We, uh, we should be careful," he managed, eyes slipping closed in bliss. "I . . . don't want to hurt you."

She drew back, eyes dark and wanting.

And grinned at him as she slipped a leg over his lap and sat astride him.

"I feel fine, Dylan."

And she leaned over catching his mouth with hers.

"Better than fine."

 _Yeah, I can . . ._

Hands slipping in between them to caress his skin with silken fingers.

. . . _mmm, tell._

* * *

Dylan Massett was a believer in great sex.

The way it felt.

The way it sounded.

The way it smelled and tasted.

He liked it. Alot.

The escape of harsh reality into a realm of intense pleasure and that little death.

He'd had lots of sex.

Some of it great, some of it not.

Some of his partners he had cared about.

Some he couldn't even remember their names.

But nothing, nothing was as good as sex with the woman he loved.

The woman who loved him and knew him and accepted him.

 _Emma._

* * *

"Dylan, um, I wanted to talk to you."

"Okay."

Preparatory clearing of the throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Gathering her courage, finally looking him in the eyes to speak so they would know they were telling the truth to each other.

"What is it, Emma?"

Nervous licking of the lips.

All the things he could watch her do all day.

"I really appreciate you being so kind and patient with my recovery. Especially with the, um,-"

She paused and Dylan thought he was intervening in a good way.

"Emma, please, it's nothing-"

She smiled.

"I know. But it's meant alot to me. It means you really care."

Dylan had no trouble being honest.

He shrugged.

"Emma, I love you. I'll do anything for you."

Her smile widened, then disappeared.

"Yeah and that's part of what I'm trying to say. Ahem, I'm glad you've been taking care to be careful with me when we have sex."

 _Whoa. She just threw that right out there, didn't she?_

"But I can have sex like a normal person now."

And he . . .

"Oh, um, okay."

. . . didn't quite know what to say.

She smiled, stepping closer. Pressing her hands to his chest, playing with the fabric of his shirt.

"I kinda get the feeling that you've been, uh, holding back because you were worried about, um, sending my new lungs flying out of my nose or something . . ."

 _Haha, wait that can't really happen, can it?_

". . . and don't get me wrong, I don't want you to slam me up against a wall or spank me or anything . . ."

 _Oh my god-_

". . . but it's okay to, uh . . ."

She grinned, blushing.

". . . be a little more . . . assertive."

 _Wait, is she saying I'm being a bad lover?_

"I'm not saying you've been a bad lover or anything . . ."

 _Stop reading my mind._

"I'm just saying you don't have to worry anymore about hurting me if you get, um . . ."

Her blush deepened and Dylan thought he had never had such a subtly erotic conversation in his life.

". . . passionate."

 _I literally have no idea what to say right now but . . ._

"Okay."

Then he didn't move a muscle.

"Dylan?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you feel passionate about me . . . physically?"

 _You have no idea._

"Yes."

She grinned, tossing off her blouse theatrically in a way he knew she couldn't have done even a week ago.

"Then show me."

He glanced around, unsure.

But so, _so_ ready at the same time.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Emma's eyes seemed to gleam as she locked him with her yearning gaze.

" _Show_ me."

He grinned, a little self consciously.

She grinned back.

"Okay."

And then taking her in his arms, he did.

* * *

"Don't pressure me. For anything."

She'd said it cute and sweet that day at the cabin when he'd first kissed her.

Told her she _had_ to get that 'dumb lung transplant'.

But Dylan Massett could tell it was true, reflexive and instinctive and true.

And applied to any number of situations that could crop up between them.

And he also didn't need to be told twice.

He'd never been aggressive with females when it came to sex.

He'd never really had to.

Plus, watching his mother groped and manhandled by his stepfather over the years had been repulsive.

He _never_ wanted to be like that.

Treat women like meat, convenient holes.

Even when he was just after them for sex he was always respectful about it.

If they were up for it, great.

If not, okay.

So being considerate of whatever boundaries Emma had wasn't new behavior for him.

But he was doing it for a whole new reason.

Add to respect and common decency, long abiding, complete and genuine love.

She could have been a celibate nun and if she loved him back he would have never blinked an eye.

Fortunately for Dylan, Emma Decody . . .

"I love you, Dylan."

"I love you, Emma."

. . . loved him.

"Now take your pants off!"

Big grins between them. Chuckles.

"Okay."

And wanted to enjoy his body just as much as he wanted to enjoy hers.

And theirs together.

He always let her take the lead because only she could tell what would tax her healing body too much. Cause pain. Possible damage to her healing body.

So he tried to be gentle. Controlled. Kind.

That had not changed.

He would never consider hurting her. Treating her anything less than his everything.

But she wanted his abandon now. She wanted his full-out passion, not tempered by anxiety or fear for her condition.

She just wanted them.

Together.

Just them.

Sex had always been serious business for Dylan.

Never before in the heat of passion had he even considered having the proclivity to just grin at the girl other than for lust.

 _I appreciate what you're showing me right now._

Or smug pride.

 _Yeah, I liked that move myself. Pretty good, huh?_

Those times were good, sure.

But he'd never just looked upon his partner . . .

 _I love you so much._

. . . just felt a surge of joy, a thrill of happiness that she was in his life just as she was.

He couldn't quite explain it, would feel stupid trying to.

But he thought Emma might understand if he did.

Because when they paused, exchanged big, happy grins . . .

 _I love you, I love you, I love you._

. . . without any self consciousness or reservation at all.

No intent to keep up some grownup I-am-having-sex-here faces.

Just love and happiness and a sense of being accepted and completed in every way by another human being . . .

 _I love you so much, Emma._

. . . it meant all the world to him.

 _Always._

 _Forever_.

* * *

"Oh, Dylan . . ."

". . . Emma . . ."

* * *

"You okay?"

She sounded slightly concerned.

"Dylan?"

Slightly.

They had been lying there for a few minutes, slowing their racing hearts and heavy breathing.

All sweaty and worn out.

And feeling so good.

So _good._

He gulped air. Trying to sound calm. And not like he was completely spent and drunk on her.

"Yeah. Yeah. You just, uh, left me . . . breathless."

It sound like a line, a really bad line.

But it wasn't.

It was just . . . him.

Him at that moment.

She laughed, a throaty, sexy sound that made him grin, eyes half-lidded, expression dopey, up at the ceiling.

Then she responded, light and cheeky.

"Well, I hope you don't need an oxygen tank because I gave that up."

He barked a chuckle, glancing over at her.

"Really?"

She nodded, eyes alit, demeanor devilishly sexy and playful.

"Yeah, really."

And stretched.

Still grinning like a minx as his eyes swept appreciatively over her bare skin.

"And you better get your air back 'cause we're going again soon."

He laughed.

"Oh yeah?"

She grinned back, already reaching for him again.

"Oh yeah."

 _Oh yeah._

* * *

 **Oh yeah. ;)**

 **So I hoped you've enjoyed the story up to this point. Even if you're just reading and not reviewing, I just want people to enjoy it.**

 **And I post it for myself as well.**

 **So I've got to go back to work tomorrow after a 10 day snow break. I won't post again until the weekend.**

 **Next up though, Dylan and Emma are going to find out some exciting news. You can probably guess what it is!**


	59. Rollercoaster of Emotion

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Rollercoaster of Emotion

* * *

It was the longest four minutes of his life.

Okay, no it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

But, it was right up there.

He paced the apartment they shared with Will.

Will who was gone off to class.

Leaving Dylan and Emma the perfect opportunity to . . .

 _I wonder how_ that's _gonna change._

. . . deal with some life changing revelations.

Dylan rubbed his neck. Ran a restless hand through his hair.

Glanced nervously around from here to there to everywhere, trying to find a focal point which with to wait out the clock.

When Emma finally emerged from their bathroom with a flushed face and those warm brown eyes lit up and bubbly, his heart stopped.

And he didn't even need to hear her say the words.

But he really kind of did.

And she obliged him.

"I'm pregnant."

His heart jerked once, twice.

And then started hammering so hard it hurt his chest.

She grinned nervously, face estatic, then scared, then a wild mix of emotions all over the place.

"I never really thought about living long enough or being healthy enough to ever be a mother, it was never part of a future for me-"

She was talking fast, stammering over her words.

Anxious and worried and excited and everything rolled into one.

"- and I know we didn't plan for this and we don't have any money saved and you just started your new job and we've only been married for six months-"

Wrapping her arms around herself, trembling fingers tucking her auburn hair behind one ear, obviously wanting to reach out to him but unable to do so yet until she knew how he was going to react.

"- please don't be mad, I don't-"

And Dylan burst out into laughter mixed with tears of pure happiness as he reached for his beautiful wife.

"Emma, Em, stop, _stop_!"

Taking her face gently in his hands.

And kissing her. Softly. Lovingly.

Tasting her. And the salt of his sudden tears on their lips.

And when they parted a little, Dylan stayed still.

Pressing his forehead to hers, eyes closed.

He wasn't praying exactly.

He had never known how or to whom or why.

He was just very, very . . . grateful.

Finally, he sniffed and opened his eyes.

Seeing her so close.

Peeking at him.

Those eyes, those eyes.

Those liquid eyes.

And he smiled.

And drew back.

Speaking quietly, frank sincerity coloring every word.

"I love you, Emma. So much. You're everything to me. I can't imagine my life without you. It would be . . . horrible."

And it would be. He'd be lost. Like he'd always been before her.

So lost.

And alone.

Full of anger and resentment and misery.

"You're right, we're not ready for this baby. But I want it. I want it so much. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life besides you."

He could feel his emotions swelling in his chest, threatening to overwhelm him.

"I wanna . . . I wanna hold it and love it and cuddle it and take care of it. I wanna talk to it and feed it and make sure it knows it's loved more than anything in the world."

He paused, sniffing again, then continued.

Somewhat lighter than before.

"And I wanna name it. 'It' is a weird name for a baby. Like, creepy clown weird."

Quirking a lopsided smile at Emma, still in his arms.

Who burst into relieved giggles, face alight with joy.

Reaching up, wiping a thumb gently across the tears that now streaked his face.

"Okay. But, no offense, we're not naming it 'Norma'. Or 'Norman'."

He grimaced, still somehow grinning and crying at the same time.

"Oh, god, no."

And even though it hurt like it always did, dull and distant, the thought of Norma and Norman's severe continued dysfunctionality, Dylan Massett still managed to chuckle.

As he swiped away his tears.

And cradled his amazing wife and unborn child close to his chest.

"I love you, Emma."

"I love you, Dylan."

* * *

Dylan Massett, former unloved incest bastard son of brother/sister dyfunctional duo Norma Bates and Caleb Calhoun, now current person, was going to be a father.

 _Father._

 _Dad._

 _I'm going to be a dad._

He was both terrified.

 _I don't know how to be a dad._

And elated.

But he sure as hell know how _not_ to be a dad, a parent.

 _I'm never going to abandon my child._

 _Never make my son or daughter feel unloved or unwanted._

He would always back his child up, be there when they needed him.

He would teach him or her how to survive the world well.

And then watch on with pride as they went out into it and succeeded.

And if his child failed, for whatever reason, that child would always have a place to come home to.

Welcomed. With open arms.

And backed up with love, supported, until they could regroup and step forward again.

 _Always._

He was going to always be ready to put them before himself.

Always ready and willing to listen, even if he didn't like what was being said.

And be open and honest about everything, all the ti-

 _What about Audrey?_

 _Shut up. Go away. I don't know anything for sure._

All the time.

He was going to be a great dad.

He would make sure of it.

Emma and the baby were going to be the most important people in all the world to him.

Forever.

If they lived.

If they lived.

If.

 _Oh god._

 _Ohgodohgodohgodohgod-_

 _No. No._

 ** _No._**

 _They're going to be okay._

 _The doctors will take care of them._

 _It'll be fine._

 _Emma's strong and tough._

 _And careful._

 _It'll be fine._

 _Fine._

 _They'll be just fi-_

* * *

"Dylan? Are you okay?"

Emma's murmur was husky and sleepy, buried somewhere in the covers of the warm, welcoming bed they shared.

And she had every right to be sleepy.

It was three in the morning.

She should be sleeping.

And had been.

Until Dylan Massett, a future father for going on a good six hours now, was experiencing what some might term as, 'a complete new parent riddled anxiety attack'.

Or something.

"Yeah," he answered into the soft fall of her hair. "I just want to hold you awhile."

She made some sort of noise in her throat and rolled over.

Wrapping strong slender arms around him, lips brushing kisses all across his face.

His closed eyes. His nose. His mouth.

She did this without speaking.

As if she knew what was in his mind.

And then took his hand and placed it on her still flat stomach.

Pressed her forehead against his.

And they stayed like that for awhile.

Sending the baby their love and strength.

And for the rest of night, he finally slept in peace.

And dreamt of walking in the sun with his happy, healthy child cradled in his arms.

* * *

 **Well, Dylan is a rollercoaster of emotion, isn't he?**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and my kind guest for reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to lilped7 and Alexander Old for adding your support to this story.**


	60. Lioness

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Lioness

* * *

"Good morning, Emma."

"Good morning, Doctor Williams."

Dylan could practically feel the waves of tension radiating out from Emma's pores.

Sometimes he went with her to her respiratory appointments.

Sometimes her dad did.

Sometimes she went alone.

But this time . . .

"I want to you to come with me, Dylan. Can you take off from work?"

And because it was Emma, he of course . . .

"Yeah, sure. Are you okay?"

Her dark eyes were worried and anxious as she restlessly fiddled with the collar of her soft pink blouse.

"I'm just nervous about what they're going to say about . . . you know . . ."

Dylan wrapped his arms around her.

"Yeah, me too. But it will be okay. We'll get through it together, okay?"

She smiled, somewhat half heartedly.

"Okay."

. . . took a personal day and went.

Dylan was there, Seattle traffic navigator.

Quiet support.

The shoulder to cry on if needed.

And now, in the specialist's office, surrounded by thick tomed medical books on shelves and plaques proving how knowledgeable and experienced he was in his field . . .

"Your test results all look good, Emma. Exceptional, in fact."

She nodded almost dismissively, quite used to receiving good reports on her transplanted lungs.

"Okay, great."

Dylan almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"Which is why your new development is of significant concern."

 _Shit, he's not calling it a baby._

Emma drew a deep, healthy, strong breath.

"Okay."

The doctor frowned at her over the top of his glasses.

"Emma, you have experienced fantastic success with your transplant. You have had next to no complications and you have recovered quicker than any patient I have ever treated."

Emma ventured a wary smile.

"Okay."

Dylan felt the anxious nerves in his neck starting to twist and knot.

"It would be a travesty to undue all of your hard work with prolonged unnecessary stress on your body. Especially considering the relative recentness of your transplant."

The doctor's solemn expression made Dylan's stomach churn sickeningly.

"I strongly advise you to consider terminating this pregnancy for your own safety."

Heartbroken, Dylan glanced over at his wife, the sun in his entire universe.

 _It would kill her to do that._

And saw a vein pulsing at the side of her neck.

Her jaw was clenched and working.

"Emma," he murmured, concerned.

She jerked and her face flared.

Her mouth opened and closed.

Hand nearest him twitched.

Dylan's heart started hammering, worried she was having a stroke or something.

"Emma?"

Then, she simply exploded.

Like a volcano of impending motherhood.

"Doctor, I never thought I would live long enough to have a baby. I never thought I would be able to have any sort of real life after a certain point at all! We didn't try to get pregnant, we took precautions every time."

Her voice was beginning to rise and her every muscle seemed rigid and strained.

"But it's here, in me, right now. It's alive, right now, and I'm not going to kill it just because something _might_ happen! This is _my_ baby, okay?! _I_ want it! I respect your intention and what you're trying to tell me, but you can either help me and tell me how to get it here and keep both of us alive and well or you can go to _hell_ and I'll find another doctor who _will_ help me!"

She was on her feet now, all five foot five, one hundred ten pounds of her ready to tear apart the entire world for her unborn child.

Chest heaving with emotion, tears standing in her furious eyes.

The doctor, having not moved or reacted during her entire tirade, inspected her over calmly, hands folded in front of him on the desk.

Then shifted his attention momentarily to Dylan.

"Is that how you feel as well, Dylan?"

He didn't even hesitate, only spoke through suddenly dry lips.

"I want what's best for Emma. She wants the baby. So do I. Will you please help us?"

The doctor looked back and forth between them and Dylan realized he was gripping the arm of the chair so hard his fingers hurt.

"With the right precautions and treatments, transplant patients have been known to retain their quality of life and wellbeing while giving birth to healthy babies."

He paused.

"They have also been known to suffer severe, life-threatening complications. Even death."

Emma blanched, face drawn thin.

But her voice was steel.

"I don't care."

Dylan flinched.

The doctor ignored him. Solidly focused on his patient.

"The baby could also suffer from immunosuppressant toxicity, low birth weight. You might not even be able to bring it to term which would bring about an entirely different set of medical issues, perhaps for a lifetime."

Emma never blinked.

"I would rather try than just kill it. Just tell me what to do."

The doctor nodded.

"Alright. Then we will do our best."

Emma visibly relaxed, sinking back into the chair as the adrenaline and defiance drained out of her system.

Dylan reached toward her, threading comforting fingers through her trembling ones.

The doctor observed them dryly over the rim of his glasses.

"I will say, if this all works out, this baby will be very lucky to have parents that want it so much."

Dylan forced himself to look away from his wife and to the specialist.

"We do. Thank you, doctor."

* * *

 **My mother's doctor suggested she abort me for serious medical reasons. Like her and mine potential death. She cussed him out too.**

 **I also understand the doctor could have been a woman but I can't for the life of me write a scene where a woman would tell another woman to kill her baby. Maybe I'm small minded.**

 **And I'm basing Emma's pregnancy and delivery and all medical information on the information I've found in my research because I want to give credit and respect to these warrior women.**

 **Just so you know. :)**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and Lana Brown for reviewing! You're wonderful!**


	61. Doctor, Doctor

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Doctor, Doctor

* * *

"Are you ready to hear the heartbeat?"

Emma had been weighed, blood pressured, and temperatured.

On this, her month two prenatal visit.

Dylan with her because . . .

"Will you come with me? I can get it scheduled for after work."

 _Is this even a question?_

"Yeah, of course."

. . . it was his baby too.

And now . . .

"Yes!"

. . . the moment had come.

To prove that there was something, someone . . .

"This is a fetal Doppler to hear the heartbeat . . ."

. . . actually in there.

The nurse squeezed out some . . .

 _Hey, I know what that stuff is, well, not anymore-_

 _Ahem._

. . . clear gooey stuff onto Emma's lower stomach . . .

"We may have trouble hearing it; it is common. So don't be disappointed, the fetus . . ."

 _Baby. It's a baby. It's our baby._

" . . . is very small; sometimes they hide . . ."

. . . pressed the little medical sonar to her skin.

"Whumpwhumpwhumpwhumpwhump . . ."

And instantly the sound of slightly muffled galloping horses filled the room.

Dylan felt his own heart stutter to a halt, his breathing hitch.

And his entire being crashed to a full stop.

And restarted anew.

Emma's whisper was lost to him as the sound of his child's heart beating filled up every pore of his being.

"Dylan . . ."

But her hand gripping his, squeezing almost painfully, brought him back to her.

Her eyes were overbright, shimmering with tears he felt in his own.

The baby's heartbeat was strong and steady . . .

 _"Hey, I'm strong, I'm here, I'm ready to go, I'm super tough, don't worry about me, I got this-"_

. . . very very fast.

Still holding onto Emma's hand, Dylan Massett turned to the nurse.

"Is, uh, is the heartbeat supposed to be that fast?"

The nurse, a matronly (real matronly, not fake Norma Bates matronly but someone who actually cared, he could tell) brunette woman with patient, kind, knowledgeable eyes checked the read outs on her little machine.

"One hundred forty beats per minute. Right in the middle of where we want it. Regular. Nice and strong. Just right."

Just right.

The baby was okay, just right.

Dylan nodded.

"Okay."

And kept listening.

* * *

". . . vaginal probe if we can't see anything from this try . . ."

 _Hang on, what? Don't . . . don't go in there yet. It's still mine for a while._

". . . but let's try the regular ultrasound first."

 _Thank you._

Emma lay on her back, slightly elevated in the dim of the ultrasound room, big TV screen listing her identifying information and waiting to show them their first sighting of their child.

"Okay, this should be nice and warm . . ."

More gloopy stuff squirted out over her still flat, three month pregnant belly.

". . . and let's see what we can see."

Instantly the monitor gifted Dylan with a black and white Doppler readout of the inside of his wife's uterus.

 _Whoa. This is awesome._

Complete with . . .

"There's your baby!"

. . . a vaguely humanoid shaped . . .

 _Oh my god . . . we're having an alien._

. . . creature.

Which was . . .

"Oh Dylan!"

. . . moving.

Kicking and squirming away deep down in Emma's body.

Dylan sat holding his wife's hand.

Transfixed by his little otherworldly creation.

And listening . . .

". . . heart, four chambers . . ."

. . . to the technician . . .

". . . lungs . . . stomach cavity . . ."

. . . tell him all about . . .

". . . kidneys . . . full bladder cavity . . ."

. . . his baby girl or boy.

" . . . nope, just emptied . . ."

And clack, clack, clacking away on that little keyboard when something new was uncovered.

And he loved it.

"Emma," he whispered. "Look, she's got hands."

* * *

Month four.

" . . . of your blood test."

And they had taken vials and vials and _vials_ of Emma's . . .

 _Hey, leave her some._

. . . blood.

Testing for every little thing imaginable.

". . . negative for Down's Syndrome, sickle cell anemia . . .

They had even done a . . .

". . . amniocentesis results . . ."

. . . test Dylan didn't think he'd ever forget.

Watching the nurse come at his pregnant wife with a big, long needle . . .

 _Hey, watch where you're pointing that thing._

. . . to poke right into her beautiful, round stomach.

 _Wait, don't hit the BABY!_

Just to prove once and for all that . . .

". . . cystic fibrosis, negative . . ."

. . . everything about the baby was normal and healthy.

Emma nodded calmly, thanked the doctor.

And promptly burst into tears of vast and overwhelming relief.

And her husband held her.

* * *

And at the end of all the testing when they knew everything else they needed to know about the baby, the doctor . . .

". . . . about it. Except . . ."

. . . asked the most important and least important reasons of all.

"Would you like to know the sex?"

Hardly a glance passed between the expectant mother and her pins and needles husband.

"Yes."

The doctor smiled.

"It's a girl."

 _Girl_.

 _She's a girl._

 _Wow_.

* * *

Preeclampsia.

". . . of hands or feet . . ."

Gestational diabetes.

". . . thirst or hunger . . ."

Infections.

". . . fever or discharge . . ."

Spontaneous abortion.

". . . bleeding or pain . . ."

And of course, rejection of the transplanted organ.

". . . difficulty breathing . . ."

The laundry list of dangers for Emma's pregnancy was almost too much to handle.

He would have to put it all in his phone.

"Dylan . . ."

If he didn't die of a stroke first.

He watched her all the time, worried about her all the time.

"Dylan . . ."

Worried about the baby.

"Dylan, it's okay. I feel fine."

And he would look at her, unable to comprehend how . . .

"How are you not scared?"

. . . she could be so brave in the face of all this.

And Emma, beautiful, amazing Emma, the frickin' warrior smiled more gently than he had ever seen her smile in all the time he had known her.

"Of course I'm scared, Dylan," she confessed. "I'm scared all the time."

He felt a wave of some emotion he couldn't quite identify.

Relief that she was normal too seemed too weird.

And Emma continued talking.

"I know something could happen to one or either of us at any time. I know."

She raised both hands to cup his bearded face.

"But I'm okay right now. And every minute I'm okay and she's okay brings us a little closer to having Katie in our arms."

Katie.

Kate.

Kathleen Lillian Decody Massett.

As an act of hope, they had named her.

Well, Emma.

A full proud, beautiful name for a girl who would live to be unleashed on the world just as her mother had been.

If they lived.

Emma shrugged, still holding her smile.

"So I'm going with that."

And Dylan Massett found that he could not speak, only hold her.

* * *

 **I can't even imagine. Well, I can a little.**

 **Anyway, thanks to WordWeaver81 for your generous reviews!**

 **See you next weekend!**


	62. Dylan's Insatiable Ginger Girl

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Dylan's Insatiable Ginger Girl

* * *

A common side effect of immunosuppressants is nausea.

A common side effect of first, second, and sometimes third trimester pregnancy is nausea.

Emma Decody Massett, unfortunately . . .

". . . uhhhhh . . ."

. . . was experiencing . . .

"Do you want me to call the doctor?"

"No, no, I'm fi- okay, no, I'm not fine. Just . . . just hang on a second."

. . . both.

"Would you, um, ask Dad to make me some ginger tea?"

"Yeah, sure."

And that's how it began.

Ginger tea . . .

"Steeped just right for you, baby girl."

"Thanks, Dad."

And it worked.

". . . uhhhh . . ."

For a while.

And Will Decody pulled aside his new son-in-law.

"Dylan, the corner drugstore carries a product called ginger chews. I think they might help Emma."

Dylan immediately reached for his coat, grateful to be of help.

"Yeah, I'm on it."

And . . .

"Oh, thank you."

. . . Emma Decody Massett was functional again.

". . . uhhhhh . . ."

For a while.

"Hang on, I'll make some tea."

"No, I-"

"Will's been showing me-"

"Dylan, just hand me the ginger root."

Dylan looked reflexively at the tree branch looking thing Will was teaching him to use to make ginger tea to ease Emma's lingering morning sickness.

"Emma, it's, like, a raw plant roo-"

Which she snatched right out of his outstretched hand and stuck straight in her mouth.

". . . uh, okay."

* * *

For six weeks, Emma Decody Massett, the frickin' warrior, was plagued by near constant nausea.

Ginger in all its various . . .

". . . oil on my stomach."

 _Don't think about sex, don't think about sex-_

"You know if I wasn't so sick, this would make me think about sex."

 _I love you._

. . . forms followed trailing along in her wake.

Dylan didn't complain.

"Maybe the doctor can switch your meds?"

But he did try to help.

"No, I'm not taking a chance compromising my new lungs just because I have an upset stomach. It'll pass."

Emma, however, seemed unwaveringly, frustratingly confident.

"Well, maybe . . ."

Stubborn.

"It'll _pass_."

And since she was the most confident, most stubborn woman he had ever known _and_ she seemed to know herself better than anyone, Dylan . . .

"Um, okay."

. . . did his best to be supportive.

". . . uhhhhh . . ."

While secretly fearing the strain on her relatively new . . .

 _I hope they sewed them in there tight enough._

. . . lungs would cause something bad to happen to her or the baby.

 _I love you, I love you. Just be okay, please. I love you._

* * *

And suddenly, without warning, one day, she was.

It simply stopped.

The morning nausea.

The afternoon nausea.

The evening nausea.

And . . .

"Dylan? Where's the leftover pumpkin loaf?"

"Dylan, have you seen the chocolate chip cookies?"

"Dylan, can we go out and split a burger?"

"Dylan, have you ever tried kale?"

"Dylan . . ."

. . . another phase of pregnancy began.

One that, though should have been a vast improvement over ginger saturated nausea fest she had been suffering from.

"Didn't the doctor say something about sudden, extreme hunger being a symptom of gestational diabetes?"

But for a while, worried Dylan just as much.

She nodded around a mouthful of sweet potato hash.

"Yes, that's true. But it's also a sign of pregnancy."

Dylan shuffled a little, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Well, can we check?"

She smiled.

"Yes, of course. It's a good idea."

She paused then her beautiful face lit up like the sun.

"Oh, and there's a great Chinese takeout next to the hospital too!"

The bloodtest revealed she was fine.

"Yay, told you!"

And the egg rolls were pretty good too.

* * *

To say Emma ate all the time would be an understatement.

Anytime she was conscious she seemed to be hungry.

And Dylan was relatively certain she dreamt of food . . .

". . . Mexican cheese, Dad . . ."

. . . while she slept.

She never ate much, her immunosuppressant-ed stomach wouldn't allow it, pregnant or not.

She grazed, nibbling along to her heart's content.

Healthy vegetables and fruits. Hearty breads and proteins.

Junk food and sweets and teas and milks and juices.

All in the name of biology and hormones and growing the best baby in the world.

She gained a proper amount of weight as each step along the way.

Though still at the lower end of the scale, thanks to the daily immunosuppressants.

And Will and Dylan found themselves nibbling along . . .

"If we keep eating behind her like this, we're the ones who will have to go on diets when she has this baby."

. . . after her.

"Wonderful, isn't it?"

Will grinned.

And Dylan returned it.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Also along with an insatiably ravenous appetite for any and all food, Emma's second trimester of pregnancy also included . . .

"Dylan, you've been so great while I've been sick."

"Yeah, sure, of course."

"And I was thinking we could-"

Words trailing off, lips kissing openly seductive trails along his receptive skin.

 _Oh._

But still not wanting to be _that_ guy.

"Wait, Emma, I don't want you to if you're not feeling up to it."

Sweet smile, reassuring

"I am now."

A wandering hand, touching him just right.

"Unless you're not _up_ for it."

 _Seriously?_

 _I mean, hello._

 _I am now._

. . . an insatiably ravenous hunger for Dylan . . .

 _Heyyy . . ._

. . . as well.

"Uh, Emma, are you sure we won't hurt the baby? Scare it or something?"

"Positive. Now come here."

 _Okay._

 _Wow._

* * *

 **Not being gross or crazy but yeah, this is seriously how pregnancy is. And I should know. I've been through three of them. Two in twenty-two months and boy, wasn't _that_ a trip amd a half, ha!**

 **So anyway, yeah.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing!**


	63. All of Everything

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

All of Everything

* * *

Dylan and Will didn't _exactly_ fight over the ultrasound pictures.

"Are you kidding? Any student who doesn't 'ooh' and 'ahh' over pictures of my unborn granddaughter will automatically fail Victorian literature. No heart, yeah?"

"Ha, okay."

The child was, after all, biologically Dylan's.

And Emma's.

Who was biologically Will's.

So he did get to proudly show off his fair share.

As did Emma.

Who also got to show off the belly.

It started off small and little and round.

And grew and grew and grew, eventually . . .

"Dylan, look! I'm huge!"

. . .seeming to overwhelm her petite figure.

He grinned.

"You look awesome."

She grinned, shaking her head a little.

"You _always_ say that."

Dylan Massett carefully wrapped his beloved wife up in his arms.

"You always do."

* * *

"Hang on-"

"Hang on-"

"Just a minute-"

"Be right back-"

"Okay. What were you saying?"

Immunosuppressants can be hard on the kidneys.

Kidneys.

Those amazing little organs that already work so hard all the time.

Balancing bases and acids and electrolytes.

Removing water.

Producing red blood cells.

Removing toxins.

Controlling blood pressure.

Activating vitamin D.

Working, working, working.

All the time without pause or hesitancy or vacation.

Amd along comes pregnancy to compound the workload.

The best thing for those kidneys?

Water, lots of water.

Copious, copious amounts of water.

And Emma Decody Massett, having survived nearly twenty years fighting to breathe and going through double lung transplant hell and back, wasn't going to risk those lungs or any other functional organ or her baby's wellbeing by not giving her body exactly what it needed.

All that water.

She drank almost all the time.

Sipping here and there.

Flavored water.

Fruit infused water.

Hot water in tea.

Cold water with ice.

Plain water straight from the tap.

Emma Decody Massett drank.

And urinated.

"Hang on, before we go . . ."

". . . the movie, I'll be right back . . ."

". . . restroom in this store?"

Sometimes just watching her drink all that water made _Dylan_ need to pee.

Dylan, who was neither pregnant nor drinking a gallon of water every single day.

"Okay, I think I'm r-"

"Yeah, hang on."

"But then _I'll_ have to go again and we'll never leave the house!"

Against all odds, they still managed it.

"Dylan, I'm tired. Can we just order in?"

"Yeah, sure."

Enough of the time anyway.

* * *

Emma Decody Massett was six months pregnant and glowing.

Well, not _literally_ glowing.

That would have been medically concerning.

But she _was_ extremely bouyant and giddy and happy.

She was pregnant.

Cystic fibrosis free.

And pregnant.

She smiled all the time.

She ate _ALL_ the time.

She had a little round belly and the biggest boobs of her life.

And an even bigger smile.

All the time.

She was living and breathing and beating the odds of every single statistic ever set against her.

Absent mother.

Terminal illness.

High risk pregnancy.

She was showing them all.

Living in the sun.

Living.

And breathing.

And Dylan Massett loved her.

 _She's amazing. She's so amazing._

 _I don't know how she does it._

 _But she's amazing._

He loved Emma.

And he loved their baby.

That baby, that tiny, little, perfectly formed, according to the ultrasounds . . .

"Did she just wave?"

"Looked like it, didn't it, Mr. Massett?"

 _Wow._

. . . that perfect, precious, little baby that was so strong and tough.

And so vulnerable and so precious.

Just like her mother.

Emma.

Who talked to her little belly.

Rubbed her little belly.

Waiting.

Wishing.

Dreaming.

Wanting.

To be a mother to the baby growing inside her.

So much.

Just to be a mother.

Mother.

* * *

Mother.

Pregnancy tends to make impending mommies nostalgic.

And Emma Decody, tender hearted and wanting to believe the best in everyone, was no exception.

"You know, I know we've walked away and everything and I support that . . ."

Something was clearly on her mind.

". . . but sometimes I miss Norma."

Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones.

"I know she's crazy and messed up . . ."

Maybe it was the holiday season.

". . . but she was always so nice to me."

Maybe it was the psychology class she was taking.

"And I can't help thinking she would be so excited . . ."

Or maybe it was just life with its ebbs and flows.

". . . about this baby."

Whatever it was . . .

 _Shit_.

. . . Dylan didn't like it.

And he could list several reasons why.

 _Well, one, she was never nice to_ me _unless she wanted something. Or had already gotten something._

 _Two, she was probably manipulating you because you're innocent and good and vulnerable._

 _Oh, and three, Norman might have done something to your m- Audrey._

He tried to stay casual, fighting the instant sick churn of his stomach.

And shrugged noncommittally.

"Yeah. Maybe."

She tilted her head at his unenthusiastic, mumbling tone.

As he pretended not to avidly not fidget.

And finally . . .

 _Come on, you're a liar and cheat. But be healthy right now anyway._

He turned and looked her.

Because that's what they did.

And spoke as honestly as he could.

Because that was what they did.

"I'm happy with things the way they are now."

And tried to smile.

Felt like he failed miserably.

 _Believe it._

 _Please._

 _I don't want to hurt you._

 _And I don't know for sure._

 _I don't want to hurt you._

 _It might be true._

 _Please._

And Emma seemed to study the shaggy beige rug at their feet.

Then looked up and smiled warmly, dimples perfect.

"Me too."

Dylan breathed a sigh of relief.

And Emma's eyes lit up.

"What's for supper? I'm starving!"

Dylan could not have been less hungry.

But he went to the bathroom, chewed two antacids.

And stared at himself in the mirror.

 _How long? How long will I keep this secret about her mother?_

 _Forever._

 _I'll lie forever._

 _I don't know for sure._

 _She_ might _be okay._

Then he left his empty eyed self in the silently judging mirror.

 _You're a liar._

 _Yeah. I know._

And went to supper.

"Hey, Dad made shepard's pie!"

"Little taste of the old homeland, eh?"

"Cool."

* * *

The bad thoughts went away after a while.

They always did.

Not because Dylan Massett was a bad person and didn't care.

But because he was a busy person.

Work happened.

"Hey, Dylan, see what you can do to convince Pine Coast Ale, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

Friends happened.

"Hey, man, seriously, thanks for helping me work on the truck today."

"Yeah, sure, no problem."

Babies happened.

"Dylan! I felt her kick!"

"Seriously?!"

"Yeah! Here. Give me your hand."

And there she was.

Little Katie.

Some part of her anyway.

Pushing against her daddy's palm.

And Dylan . . .

"Wow . . . I can feel it!"

. . . forget everything else for a while.

 _Wow._

And Dylan's entire existence would narrow down to a point where nothing else existed for him.

Not because he was a bad person and didn't care.

But because his wife and his unborn child were all of everything to him.

"I love you, Emma."

"I love you, Dylan."

"And we love you, Katie."

"Yes, we do."

* * *

 **Thanks to the silent readers of this story! I appreciate you! :D**


	64. Mustard Seed

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Mustard Seed

* * *

Their small apartment . . .

"Where should we put the pack and play?"

"Um, over by the . . . no . . . maybe next to the . . . no . . . hmm . . ."

. . . seemed to be getting smaller . . .

"Where's my laptop?"

"Next to the carseat, I think."

. . . by the day.

Friends and colleagues and coworkers and wellwishers were showering Dylan and Emma's unborn child with gifts.

Essentials . . .

"Another pack of burp cloths? We'll never use all these! Dad, why are you laughing?"

. . . non-essentials . . .

". . . wipes warmer?"

. . . and some things . . .

"What is this?"

"'Baby Shusher'. Huh."

"It looks like a dildo."

"Dylan!"

"Or a rocket."

. . . none of them could figure out.

And some wonderful friends . . .

"A sixty dollar gift card for . . . 'diapers'. Wow, this is going to last forever! Dad, would you stop laughing?"

Pink booties and lavender snugglers.

Hairbows and receiving blankets.

Pacifiers and stuffed teddybears.

And bathing sets and fingernail clippers and Baby Skin So Soft and No More Tears and bottles and Butt Paste and teething rings and cleaning cloths and Bumpos . . .

And every single thing the ones they had drawn around them had showered upon them with all their love and encouragement and support.

And Emma . . .

"Wow. Do you think I'll be able to finish writing all the thank you notes by the time she graduates college?"

"Maybe."

. . . seemed happier and more excited everyday.

She had paused her college education.

"I can't waddle to class right now. When I have Emma and she's older, I'll go back."

"That's just fine, baby girl. College will always be there. This baby will only be a baby for a little while."

 _They're talking like everything is going to be okay._

 _How do they know?_

 _How do they know?_

"Thanks, Dad. Dylan, is that okay with you?"

"Yeah. I think it's awesome."

While Dylan . . .

"Nipple cream. Okay."

"Hey, I can help that."

"Dylan!"

. . . tried to hide his growing fear.

He wanted the baby.

He loved the baby.

But he was afraid for the baby.

And her mother

And every single baby item they recieved added to the crushing weight of his fear pressing down upon his shoulders.

That something would happen to Emma or the baby.

Something horrible.

Something irreversible.

Emma, the only light he had ever known, gone forever.

Leaving him in darkness.

Forever.

Or damaged, damaged in some way she couldn't enjoy life anymore.

All of these things, these gifts, these material possessions would be a hateful, cruel reminder of what could have been.

Almost had been.

Dylan Massett was afraid, he was scared.

He was anxious, he was fidgety.

He was plagued by nightmares and swamped with dark daydreams.

The life he loved and did not deserve being taken from him.

He wanted to believe.

But was afraid to hope.

He was a man whose wife was pregnant.

"Emma?"

"Yeah? You okay?"

"Yeah, I just . . . I just love you."

"I love you too, Dylan."

* * *

It wasn't all bad though.

Dylan Massett spent a substantial amount of his time now "with the baby".

Talking to her.

Touching her.

Feeling her tiny form move against his hand from deep within her mother's womb.

"Em, she's so strong."

"Yeah, she is. She comes from us. She's going to be strong."

Watching a movie. The Princess Bride.

"Have fun storming the castle!"

One of Emma's favorite . . .

"Hello, lady!"

. . . movies when she too tired to move.

Her head on a pillow on Dylan's lap.

His fingers tangled in her thick, wavy, auburn hair.

"My name is Inigo Montoya . . ."

Massaging away one of her infrequent immunosuppressant headaches.

Until she fell . . .

"Emma?"

". . . huzzzz . . ."

. . . asleep.

 _I love you, Emma._

 _I love you, Katie._

 _Be okay._

 _Please be okay._

"Truw Wuv . . ."

And they were.

* * *

Mostly.

Emma Decody Massett was crying.

Tears trailing down her rosy, pregnant cheeks as she blew her sniffling nose on a tissue.

Dylan, of course, immediately dropped what he was doing.

"Emma? Emma, what's wrong?"

She turned her head away in mute anguish.

Holding up a pamphlet given to them on their most recent doctor's visit.

Dylan took it, scanning the words for what could possibly upsetting her so much.

Then he found it.

'Chemicals can be passed through breastmilk from mother to child. Breastfeeding is not advised for mothers taking immunosuppressants.'

 _Oh._

Dropping it to the floor, he gently gathered his weeping wife in his arms.

Kissing her forehead, rocking her gently.

"I wanted to feed her," she whimpered. "I just wanted to able to do that. She's my daughter. I should be able to do that."

Her grief was a living thing, slicing through her heart as it worked its way out of her system.

And her husband, who loved her, held her.

And was strong for her.

Believed for her.

That everything would be . . .

". . . okay. It's okay. Now I can help too. We can share feedings and you don't have to get sore nipples and plugged ducts. I'll bring you cabbage leaves to take out the pain-"

Emma raised her head from his now damp chest, sniffing back her tears now in surprise.

"You've been reading about breastfeeding?"

He nodded as if this were obvious.

"Yeah. You're having our baby. I've been reading about all of it."

She gazed at him, her face so open and wondering.

He cast her a loving smile and she sent it back through her tears.

The she reached up and kissed him.

He let her.

Because the website had said there would be hormone and mood fluctuations too.

Though he decided not to mention that at the moment.

* * *

 **Thanks to Lana Brown, WordWeaver81, and DinahRay for reviewing!**

 **Next up, hello, baby!**


	65. The Ball Drops

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Ball Drops

* * *

Emma Decody Massett was thirty four weeks pregnant.

She had managed to successfully grow and carry a healthy child nearly to term despite having two newly transplanted lungs.

A set of currently overly taxed kidneys.

And a weakened immune system, daily poisoned just enough to allow those wonderfully CF free lungs to stay functioning within her body.

The warning signs were so subtle they almost missed them.

Increased frequency of headaches, also a side effect of immunosuppressants.

Slight swelling of the hands and feet along with fatigue, a symptom of third trimester pregnancy.

And elevated blood pressure and protein in the urine.

Tested at each doctor's visit.

Alerting the specialist to her newly developing situation.

Ordering immediate rushed blood tests.

Confirming the diagnosis.

"Emma, I'm afraid you've developed pre-eclampsia."

As his beloved wife drew a sharp, CF free breath, Dylan Massett, Apocalypse Awaiter Extraordinare, felt his insides seize up.

Pre-eclampsia.

Beginning of eclampsia.

May cause seizures.

Permanent damage to essential organs, including the brain.

Death.

 _Shit._

 _I hate Google._

"Your condition so far is still mild," the doctor informed her. "Pre-eclampsia is-"

"I know what it is," Emma interrupted calmly. "What do we do now?"

The doctor nodded, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

"The baby needs as much time to develop as possible. Especially the lungs, to reduce complications. But we also have to walk a fine line between that and compromising the safety of you and your baby."

The word 'lungs', for Dylan and Emma Massett, was the catalyst to a fire that had already been burning within them provide their daughter with the best beginning they possibly could.

Dylan felt his entire body stutter, rev, and stutter again, over and over.

His throat was closing, the possibility of losing Emma and the baby constricting his chest until he could barely breathe.

He was jolted back to reality by Emma's hand clamping down upon his in a sudden vise like grip.

"Okay," Emma repeated. "What do we do?"

Their own personal Doomsday speaker's face was serious.

"In normal cases, we would probably start by sending you home for bedrest and some other adjustments to your daily routine."

She tucked her medical tablet under one arm.

"However, considering the risk level of this pregnancy, I'd like to admit you to the hospital now so we can monitor you more closely and adjust your meds and be able to respond immediately in case of an emergency."

 _Emergency_. _Oh_ _god_.

"Okay."

The doctor lifted the tablet again, beginning to tap, quick and precise.

"I'll notify them and someone will be in to get you shortly."

Emma muttered an agreement and the doctor exited the room with purpose.

Emma turned to Dylan.

"We've got to call Dad."

"Okay."

He started fumbling for his phone.

"It's going to be okay, Dylan."

He didn't look at her, couldn't smile.

He was already feeling nothing. And everything.

"I know."

"No. Dylan."

She reached up and took his face in her hands.

Forcing him to look at her.

"It's going to be okay."

He stared at her, refusing to feel.

"How do you know?"

She shook her head a little.

"This is a condition they can treat. They can _do_ something. And I'll be right here in the hospital. I'll be safe."

Dylan nodded, working his jaw.

"I know."

Emma smiled though it seemed forced to him.

"We've come all this way. Even if something is wrong with . . . her lungs, they can help her. They can take of her."

Dylan nodded.

"I want them to take care of you too, Emma. I love you. I need you to be okay."

Emma smiled, dimples pretty.

"I'll be okay. I'm tougher than I look."

Dylan smiled wanly.

"I know."

She gave him a sweet kiss.

"I love you, Dylan."

"I love you too, Emma."

And then, holding Emma's hand, he called Will.

* * *

"You want me to _what_? Seriously?"

Dylan Massett realized his wife had gone completely insane.

"Go to work. I'm fine. I've got my phone to text you and they'll call if they need to."

And there was nothing in the world he could do about it.

"But . . . but . . . you're . . ."

She smiled, hands primly interlaced around her big, sheeted, pregnant belly.

Sitting crosslegged in her hospital gown in her hospital bed.

So much like when she'd had the transplant.

Except better still.

So much better.

Wristband. Finger O2 monitor.

Heart monitor. Baby monitor.

On the other hand, no draining tubes. No oxygen canula.

No incision site or staples.

No life and death.

Not yet anyway.

 _Oh god._

But Emma was talking. Confident. And calm.

Total Decody.

Not Bates.

 _So that's good._

"I need you here when we have the baby. When we get home. Right now we would just sit and stare at each other until we go crazy."

Dylan stared at her, mouth ajar in disbelief.

"You go to work and come see me in the afternoon and then sleep at home."

As Dylan's eyes goggled, Emma chuckled impishly.

"You'd better get rest now before she arrives. You're doing the night feedings!"

And Dylan Massett was dumbfounded.

"Emma-"

She sobered then and took his hand.

"Dylan, please. Do this for me. I love you. It's going to be okay."

* * *

He went further than that.

He got up even earlier every morning and went to the hospital before work too.

Trying to be light and positive like she needed.

"Hey, did you eat all the eggs yet?"

"Ugh, no."

He thought about her almost every second.

He had informed his boss of the situation.

A few coworkers knew, probably talked to others.

It was good they knew.

Because he was sure he was a useless mess at work.

What he didn't know was everyone thought that he was doing better than any of them knew they would.

And admired him for it.

Firm hand on the shoulder, encouraging smile.

"Dylan, good job on the Pine Coast Ale account. We need to talk after Emma has her baby."

"Okay."

* * *

 **Never any mention of anything like this in the show but I can't imagine her having no complications at all.**

 **DinahRay might give me the stinkeye though for that statement. ;)**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and Lana Brown for your kind reviews!**


	66. Thinking Like a Decody

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Thinking Like a Decody

* * *

Week thirty-six.

The last two weeks had _crawled_ by.

Emma's blood pressure slowly climbing higher and higher as doctors strove to give Katie all the time they could.

While keeping Mom and baby both safe and unharmed.

And now the magnesium sulfate drip had run its course.

Buying them forty-eight more precious hours for little Katie's tiny lungs to develop just a little more.

Get a little stronger, a little more ready to breathe on her own.

Be unleashed on the world.

Just like her mother.

Her mother, who had stayed so calm and positive throughout.

Kept frequent company by the men who loved her.

Her father.

Her husband.

Both waiting and watching vigilantly over their miracle girl.

And now, finally . . .

 _They're going to induce me today. Ready to meet our daughter?_

 _On my way! I love you._

 _I love you._

. . . it was time.

"Vic, hey, they're getting ready to induce Emma. I gotta go. Everything's in order in my office."

The man who had once been uncertain during the interview regarding Dylan's job qualifications, now favored his subordinate with a warm smile.

"We've got you covered, Dylan! Go!"

"Thanks, I really appreciate it."

As he exited the office, a few observant people, having picked up the subtle cues of a father in waiting, started the applause as he passed.

Whispering the information along.

Clapping him on the back. Offering well-wishes.

And properly sending him on his way.

* * *

He hadn't been there for Emma's lung transplant.

Well, he had.

Showing up late, mid procedure.

Not getting to tell her he loved her, that she was amazing, that she would be fine, that she had to be fine.

Having to wait, for hours and hours and _hours_ until the nine hour procedure was done.

Then wait until she came out of anethesia, regained consciousness, was checked and rechecked.

Not that he minded waiting, he would wait as long as he needed to just to see her, just to know she was okay, alive, safe.

Breathing.

 _I love you, Emma. I love you, I love you. Please be okay._

And _finally_ allowed . . .

"No more than five minutes, sir. And stay quiet and calm, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

. . . visitors.

He had waited so long to be near her again, see her face, see she was okay, let her know he was there and that he cared . . .

"You look awesome."

 _I love you._

. . . he was _not_ missing this.

He was _not_ going to be late for the birth of his child.

Although . . .

 _Change, dammit, change._

. . . every single stoplight in Seattle seemed to be working against him.

And . . .

 _Oh_ _come_ on-

. . . the other drivers . . .

 _God, I wish I had the Force._

. . . were even worse.

But eventually . . .

 _Oh my god, this elevator is so slow._

. . . he got there.

"Dylan!"

Emma's entire face radiated relief and joy as Dylan rushed to her side.

"I'm not late, am I?"

It was a stupid blurt he could not stop.

She grinned, beautiful and slightly amused.

Taking Dylan's hand to rub her round gowned belly.

"Nope, still pregnant."

He felt infinitely foolish, but could not help himself.

"Ready to become a father, Dylan?"

He had barely registered Will a few moments earlier so eager to get to Emma's side.

Dylan turned then and grinned a little.

"Better be, huh?"

Will cocked his head, amused. And chortled.

"Yeah, you'd better be."

Walking over to his daughter, Will Decody planted a gentle kiss on the top of her head.

"It's the best job in the whole world, the only one that truly matters."

And he took his daughter's hand in a most uncreepy, unBates type way.

"How are you, baby girl? You ready?"

She pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly before answering.

"Yep, I'm ready."

Then she swallowed.

"Dad, could you give us a minute? I need to talk to Dylan before everything gets started."

Will Decody nodded, a father himself, instantly ready to provide for his daughter whatever she needed.

"Sure. I'll be outside, questioning the nurses about the quality of the Earl Grey tea in this facility."

Giving a warm nod to Dylan, the soon-to-be grandfatherquietly exited the room.

The instant her father left the room, Emma's strong, brave visage crumpled.

"Dylan," she whispered. "I'm so scared."

Dylan's heart instantly broke and he reached for her even as she reached for him.

Murmuring . . .

"No, no, no, it's okay, it's okay, it's going to be okay . . ."

. . . anything, anything to make her unhappiness better.

Her face was buried in his chest, his hands smoothing down her auburn hair.

The hospital smells were overwhelming his nasal passages, making them burn.

The beepings of the machines were too piercing, the florescent lights too bright.

But felt so good to get to hold her.

He hadn't been sleeping well the past week, couldn't sleep well without her there next him in the bed.

His hands searched for her at night before his brain remembered she was sleeping miles away in a hospital bed.

He was restless and lonely without his Emma.

Even though he knew it was for a good reason.

Keeping her and their baby safe.

But now she was back in his arms.

And afraid.

"I've worked so hard to get to this point, to make sure she's okay and now we're doing this and I'm scared it's going to go wrong and something bad will happen."

 _Is she having a premonition? Can she feel something?_

 _Does she know?_

But none of that was helpful to his wife who needed him.

None of that was Decody thinking.

So Dylan shoved it aside.

And spoke like a Decody.

"It's okay. Everything's going to be okay. They know what they're doing and I'll be right here with you. You're not alone, okay? I'm not leaving. I love you."

She clung to him, much like she had at the cabin that day he had gone to convince her to get the lung transplant.

And ended up kissing her.

"Besides," he said, trying to make her smile. "You can do this, Emma. You can do anything. You're a frickin warrior."

She grinned then, face once again streaked with tears.

"Are you going to kiss me again?"

He smiled back, relieved.

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

Her grin widened, fingers kneeding the coat he still wore.

"I don't mind."

So he did.

He kissed her.

Not the desperate, aching, wild kiss of desire fulfilled.

Which was amazing in its own right.

But sweet and loving.

Full of warmth and encouragement and support.

Loving her. Trying to be just what she needed.

* * *

 **Hope you've enjoying reading! :)**

 **Next chapter, ready to have a baby?**


	67. Epidural Confessional

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Epidural Confessional

* * *

The nurse tapped the syringe with a thumb finger combo Dylan knew all too well from his time riding a motorcycle and praying for just enough gas to get home.

"Wait," he said suddenly. "Can I go to the bathroom one more time before you do that? I don't want to miss anything."

The nurse chuckled at him.

"Oh honey, that's so cute."

And then as Dylan wondered why she was laughing at him, he watched her inject the first dose of oxytocin and prostaglandin.

 _Why did she do that? Why didn't she wait until I got back? I might miss something._

* * *

Six hours later . . .

"Whoa! That was . . . whoa, where did that come from?"

Emma almost looked panicked, breathless and staring sightlessly between her blanketed knees.

Hands knuckle-white on the shiny bedrail.

Heart pounding . . .

 _Is that it? Is it over? Is she here?_

. . . he didn't make a move.

Then Emma looked at Dylan.

It was just the three of them in the room.

No doctors, no nurses.

Half hour injections of more oxytocin and prostaglandin to induce her labor and soften her cervix enough to be able to push out the baby.

And they had been talking, chatting.

Quiet moments.

Chips of ice.

Emma, finally experiencing . . .

"Hey, I think I had a contraction!"

"Do you want me to get the nurse?"

"No, it was just a little one."

. . . some signs of impending labor.

Growing gradually stronger, closer together.

Reporting information to the nurse.

Said information recorded.

Medical attendants seeming satisfied with her progression.

And the anxious trio continuing to . . .

"Oooh, that was stronger!"

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

And now . . .

 _"Whoa!"_

Dylan, leaning forward and breathless as well.

"Emma? Em?"

And amazingly, she grinned.

 _What the hell? Em?_

"I think I'm ready for my epidural now."

"Okay."

* * *

They took a long needle and jammed it in his wife's back.

Several actually.

With thin little tubes and blood and orange iodine smeared on her back to guard against infection.

Not that he saw for himself.

"Just a few minutes, Mr. Massett."

"It's okay, Dylan. It's just for an epidural."

But he watched it on YouTube while he waited.

 _Oh shit, what?!_

Or tried to.

 _Nopenopenopenope . . ._

 _Okay, that's it._

And then he stood up and paced.

And paced.

And paced.

 _I thought the pelvic exam was bad._

He hadn't _meant_ to watch as the nurse's arm had disappeared, he swore, nearly up to the elbow in his wife's . . . well, in his wife.

 _Oh hell, I . . . I'm sorry, Emma. I'll never be man enough again. I just-_

As Emma, her sweet face pulled and drawn and set to maintain a tough outer exterior, glared a determined stare through the ceiling.

But the epidural was worse.

Much, much . . .

 _So many sharp things._

. . . worse.

Dylan paced and paced and paced, feeling sick and anxious and freaked right the hell out.

"Mr. Massett, would you like to come back in now?"

And Dylan leapt to his feet, nearly falling over Will.

Will who allowed him to pass and then trailed along in his wake.

Secondary player to the ones who had created life and were now preparing to bring it into the world.

Emma Deocdy Massett was much changed by the turn of events.

Face wiped of tension, lay now still back against her pillows.

She turned her head and smiled dopily at her anxious husband and father.

"Heyyy, there's my boys."

 _Uhhh . . ._

"Em?"

The only part of her that moved was her eyebrows, raising just a little.

"Yeah?"

Dylan glanced at Will serruptiously.

Barely registering the smile tugging at one corner of the bald man's mouth.

And then back to his wife.

"You okay?"

She nodded slowly, as if floating through water.

"Mmm hmm . . ."

Dylan reached for her hand and squeezed it gently, momentarily alarmed at the weak return.

Eyes darting back to Emma's face.

And then to the nurse.

"Is she okay?!"

The young blond woman half turned, fiddling with some equipment.

"Yes. Some patients experience drowsiness from the epidural."

Then she turned to Emma, uncovering her feet.

"Emma? Emma, can you wiggle your toes?"

Seeming with some effort, Dylan Massett's laboring wife nodded her head slowly.

"Mmm hmm . . ."

The nurse appeared to stifle a smile.

"Okay. Go ahead."

The frickin' warrior stared at her.

"I just did."

She had not moved.

The nurse did smile then.

"Okay, Emma. You're doing just fine."

She pinched Emma's big toe with the edge of her fingernails, hard enough to raise the veins in her arm.

"Did you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

Dylan, holding Emma's hand, trying not to laugh, leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

She blinked up at him, still smiling.

And then lolled her attention back to the medical attendant.

"Nurse," she questioned dreamily. "Am I still having contractions?"

 _Oh my god, Em, you are_ so _high right now._

"Yes, actually, you're in the middle of a very strong one right now."

One gloved finger pointed to a monitor exhibiting spiking lines and an assortment of readouts.

Emma closed her eyes again and spoke in the same floating voice as before.

"Wow . . . that's amazing."

Then she opened her eyes again, searching for her husband who was still right next to her.

And her father, standing at the ready at the foot of her bed.

"Dylan, if anything happens to me . . ."

 _Oh god._

". . . I need you to know . . ."

 _Oh please don't do this right now, Em. I don't think-_

". . . you have the best butt in the whole world, hey, Dad, and, Dylan, your penis-"

 _Oh my god, Em, stop-_

". . . is just so incredible-"

 _Please stop-_

Dylan tried to lovingly shush her . . .

 _Em, seriously-_

. . . as Will's ears turned blood red, standing out in sharp relief against rest of his pale English flesh.

"What, this is stuff you need to know . . ."

She gifted Dylan a beautific expression of the right and truly drugged.

Before closing her eyes and drifting off into a semi-conscious state.

Will coughed pointedly.

"Well, now that we know what she's like on delivery sedatives, I think I'll take a walk to the hot beverage machine, Dylan."

They shared awkward smiles and then as Will took his leave, Dylan eased himself down into a hard plastic chair.

 _Wow, Emma. Just, wow._

And began to wait for the next phase of the Decody/Massett Baby Delivery of Impending Probable Possible Doom and Inebriated Confessional.

Or just the delivery of their first born child.

* * *

 **So Emma stoned on the pot cupcake was adorable and I thought she just might get a little too high initially on the epidural. I did anyway.**

 **As for the induction, once again, research, so hopefully I didn't make any major faux pas.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reviewing! :D**


	68. Hello, Katie

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Hello, Katie

* * *

Emma's impromptu nap lasted fifteen minutes.

"Hey."

Dylan surged with relief.

"Hey."

Emma's expression was clear. And sheepish.

"Did I run Dad off?"

Dylan grinned.

"A little. But I think he'll be back soon."

He rubbed her hand gently.

"Are you okay? Are you hurting?"

Emma shook her head.

"No. I'm numb. It's so weird. Everything got really heavy and thick and then I just . . ."

She blushed.

"I can't believe I said that stuff in front of him."

Dylan grinned bigger.

"Yeah, it was pretty awesome."

Emma giggled.

The door opened then.

"Hey, Dad."

Will Decody smiled mildly.

"Hey, baby girl."

Emma blushed.

"Sorry I embarrassed you earlier."

Will Decody waved a dismissive hand.

"Say no more about it. And I mean that. I'm actually in the process of trying to forget all about it if you don't mind."

His tone was light and easy, also completely unBates-like.

 _God, I love being part of this family._

The doctor entered then, followed closely by a nurse.

"Feeling better, Emma?"

Emma nodded.

"Epidurals are wonderful. Well, not getting them but . . ."

The image of all those needles rose up in Dylan's mind and-

 _Ugh-_

-he reflexively grimaced, squeezing Emma's hand.

She glanced at him and he managed a sick smile.

Will excused himself from the room then and after a brief exam from which Dylan averted his eyes . . .

 _I can't watch that again._

. . . the doctor straightened.

"Okay, you are now fully effaced and dilated. Are you ready to see your baby?"

Emma lit up.

"Yes!"

The doctor smiled.

"Good. We're taking extra precautions to guard against infection so we'll need to get your husband scrubbed in and dressed out. After that, we'll start you pushing. Okay, Emma?"

Dylan rubbed her hand as she nodded nervously and the doctor continued.

"It shouldn't take too long and we'll be monitoring you and the baby closely the entire time. If something happens, we'll be ready for an emergency c-section if we have to."

 _Emergency. Oh god._

"As soon as the baby is born, we'll need to start you immediately on a magnesium drip again to bring down your blood pressure. It should normalise within twenty four hours and the preeclampsia will be gone."

 _Okay, only twenty four more hours, okay._

"Do you have any questions right now?"

Emma looked at Dylan then at the doctor and shook her head.

"I don't think so."

The doctor nodded a final time.

"Okay, let's get started. Dad, if you'll go with the nurse, they'll fix you up."

It took a full five seconds for Dylan to realize the doctor was talking to him.

"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

Dylan kissed her head again.

And went with the nurse to get ready for his baby.

Will patting Dylan solemnly on the shoulder as he passed him in the hall.

"I'll be in the waiting room, Dylan. You both'll do just fine. Tell my daughter and my granddaughter I love them."

Dylan thought he nodded.

"Okay. I will."

* * *

It had all gone according to plan.

"And she's out! A beautiful baby girl!"

Emma covered in a sheen of sweat, had slumped back against Dylan, all energy evaporated in a single . . .

"How're those lungs holding up?"

"Better than my vagina right now, oh god-"

. . . explosion of relieved breath.

Thanks to the speedy induction drugs, she had only had to push for thirty minutes.

Never making a sound . . .

 _Wow, good drugs-_

. . . until a moment before the baby had entered . . .

". . . mmmmmmm . . ."

. . . the world and a strange mewling sound had escaped her slender throat.

Frightening Dylan-

". . . it's okay, Em, it's okay, you got this, you got this, Em, I love you, you got this . . ."

But now it was over . . .

"Emma, they need to check the baby, you just rest okay, we need to take care of you here . . ."

. . . and Dylan had numbly cut the cord . . .

 _Sure it's okay?_

. . . and the nurse's had whisked the baby away . . .

 _Hey_ _, give her back, we just got her-_

. . . to check and record her stats.

That baby, that beautiful baby-

"Dylan, Dylan, something's wrong, listen, Dylan-"

. . . that baby who was not breathing right.

That nurses were still working on.

That they were not bringing over.

"Emma," the doctor directed firmly. "We're going to take good care of the baby, its okay. Now you need to be still so we can take care of you. We need to guard against infection here and bring down your blood pressure. Please let us take care of you. Nurse, we need her mag drip stat-"

Emma, who had been struggling in Dylan's arms to rise, slumped back again.

Face drawn thin and clenched.

"Dylan, Katie, get Katie-"

And suddenly a nurse was right there with the baby.

"Momma, I need to borrow Dad now. I need him to help me with the baby, okay?"

Emma drew a stricken breath.

And released her deathgrip on Dylan.

Dylan who panicked-

"Emma-"

"Dad, I need you to help me with your daughter, okay? Come with me. Please."

Emma's eyes were scared and big in her pale face as she looked at Dylan.

But her voice, trembling and rough with emotion, was determined all the same.

"Take care of Katie for me."

And the nurse pulled him away.

* * *

"The baby's not breathing well enough on her own. Her O2 levels are a little low. Not severely but not high enough to be stable. I can take her to the NICU and put her on oxygen if I have to but I want to try something else first."

They were in an adjacent room, dim and quiet and unoccupied.

Dylan stared down at the small bundle in the woman's green scrub arms.

"What do I do?"

"Take off your shirt. Sit down in this chair and get comfortable."

Without hesitation, Dylan shrugged off his protective scrubs.

His brown shirt.

His undershirt.

And sat.

 _Cold_.

"This is called kangaroo care."

The nurse unwrapped the bundle and lay the naked newborn on her father's smooth chest.

Covered both father and daughter with a warm blanket.

Dylan cradled the child.

"What do I do?" he asked again.

The nurse laid a hand on the covered child.

"Relax. Hold her. Talk to her. Breathe normally so she can feel it. I'll be back in a few minutes to check her O2 levels."

Dylan nodded.

"Is my wife okay?"

The woman smiled gently.

"She's in good hands. I'll give you an update when I come back."

Dylan tore his gaze away from his daughter long enough to look up.

"Okay, thank you."

And then the nurse left.

And Dylan Brian Massett finally met his daughter.

 _Hello, Katie._

She was beautiful.

Perfect.

And beautiful.

Dark, slightly, damp blond hair.

Little round face.

Swollen tiny eyes, owlish expression.

Sweet little pug nose.

Bow lips.

Little balled-up fists under her chin.

She didn't look sick.

She didn't look underoxygenated.

She just looked little.

Little and beautiful and wrinkly and . . .

"Hey, Katie."

. . . perfect.

"I'm your daddy."

And Dylan Massett was in love.

"I'm gonna take care of you."

Fearfully.

"You're going to be okay."

Wonderfully.

"You're strong."

Completely.

"And your mom is strong."

In love.

"And you're going to be okay."

His voice was husky with the tears trickling down his face freely now.

His tears of joy. Of gratitude. Of fear.

Of love.

He held her close, tucked almost up to his chin.

So he could whisper to her, quiet and calm and soothing.

So she could hear him.

Feel him.

And know how loved and safe and wanted she was.

"I love you, Katie. We love you. Everything's going to be okay."

He talked and held and rocked and cooed for what felt like forever.

The babe was still and warm and soft in his arms.

They rocked in a twilight haze, Dylan Massett enveloping his daughter with all the warmth and love and strength all he could.

As much as he could.

For as along as she needed.

"We love you, Katie. We love you."

* * *

Until the nurse came back.

"Okay, Emma is resting comfortably. They've got her cleaned up and she's hooked up to a magnesium sulfate drip to help bring down her blood pressure. She's fine."

Dylan nodded, face still grim.

"Let's see how the little one is, okay?"

Dylan reluctantly let his baby daughter go, instantly missing the warmth of her tiny body.

"Okay," the nurse said after a minute. "Oxygen saturation levels are improving. Good job, Dad."

And she passed the baby back.

"Let's give her ten more minutes to make sure she's fully stabilized. I'll tell Mom."

Dylan clung to his daughter.

"Emma's father is in the waiting room-"

The nurse smiled.

"Yes. You've drawn quite a crowd."

Dylan stared at her blankly.

"What?"

The woman chuckled.

"There's about ten people in the waiting room with him. You've got a big family."

 _Family?_

"We don't have any family but us."

Kindness emanated from the medical attendant.

"Family are people who care about you and take care of you. Not just blood."

And then she left Dylan again.

With his wonder.

And his daughter.

* * *

 **Yay, Katie!**

 **Hope you enjoyed reading!**


	69. The Most Loved Baby in the World

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Most Loved Baby in the World

* * *

"Dylan, she's so beautiful."

It was only the fiftieth time she'd said it.

"Yeah, she is."

Only the fiftieth time he'd agreed.

"So are you."

And he looked forward to saying it at least fifty more times.

Just that day alone.

 _How did I get so lucky?_

Emma Decody Massett sat in her lumpy hospital bed, swathed in her vulmunious, cumbersome hospital gown.

Covered by a thin, itchy hospital blanket.

Hair atangle.

Magnesium sulfate intravenously coursing its way through her.

Lowering her blood pressure, eradicating her pre-eclampsia.

Immunosuppressants dampening her defensive system enough to allow her transplanted CF free lungs to continue drawing oxygen easily into her body, sending out carbon dioxide.

Womb still shedding its nine month in-the-making lining.

Stretched and pained lady parts soothed by a compress of witch hazel and aloe vera.

Breasts already beginning to swell and ache with mother's milk she would never to be able to safely feed her daughter.

And none of that seemed to matter to her now.

As she held, caressed, and cooed over the tiny newborn baby in her arms.

Little Katie Decody Massett.

Four weeks premature.

Five pounds, fourteen ounces.

Eighteen and a half inches long.

So small.

So delicate.

So Decody.

And breathing just fine on her own now, thank you very much.

Holding her own body temperature.

Being unleashed on the world.

She had ten fingers and ten toes.

Blond fuzzy hair and blue eyes.

And a young mother and father who loved her very, very much.

Other people cared for her too.

Will, the proud granda' had held and wept with joy over the tiny babe who had slept peacefully in his arms.

And softly quoted poetry to her.

"And in thy wee eyes, the entirety of the universe contain."

"Hardy?"

"Nah, Decody. Too special a moment for anything else."

Friends.

"Hey, Emma, congratulations! This gift card is from everyone in Art History!"

"Thank you, Jane!"

Colleagues.

"Oh, Dylan, she's just beautiful!"

"Thanks, Tina."

Good, kind people.

Come and gone.

And now just them.

Emma, Dylan, and Katie cradled up together on the narrow bed.

Their little family.

The dad who had never had a real father.

The mom who had never had a real mother.

And the child herself.

Who now, from the very beginning, had, and would always have, the love and joy and acceptance of both.

 _I love you, Emma._

 _I love you, Katie._

 _I love you both so much._

* * *

She took to the bottle quite easily.

"Oh my, two ounces! Who's a hungry girl?"

Dylan was somewhat taken aback . . .

"Uh, Nurse?"

. . . by the first meconium diaper.

But they both . . .

"Oooh, what a strong cry!"

. . . were pleasantly amazed by the strength and vitality coming from . . .

"Who's a big girl, Katie? Who's a big girl? Yes, you are."

. . . their tiny little miracle.

They sent them home.

Home.

To a place where it was just them.

Only them.

No doctors or nurses.

No machines or food service.

 _Well_ . . .

"Thought you might enjoy a homemade shepard's pie, baby girl."

"Oh, thanks, Dad! Do you want to come in and see Katie?"

"Welllll, maybe for just a second."

Gracious wink, care-lined face softening.

"There's the wee one. Hello, Katie."

. . . wasn't entirely true.

"Hey, saw your 'Welcome Baby' balloons on the mailbox. Thought you might like a smoked salmon and potato chowder."

"Wow, Liesle, thanks! Would you like to come in and meet Katie?"

"Oh . . . maybe just a peek."

The wellwishers brought food, diapers, clothing, gift cards and love.

They brought advice.

"Careful with that paci. She'll never let go of it."

They offered their help.

"May I feed her a bottle?"

And just generally . . .

"Oh how precious!"

. . . loved the baby.

Happy.

Tired.

And eventually . . .

"We're just next door. Call on us anytime!"

. . . glad to finally be . . .

"Thanks, we appreciate that."

. . . alone.

"It's so quiet."

"I know."

And then they lay down together in Dylan and Emma's bed.

And fell asleep together.

* * *

 **Short and sweet, hope you enjoyed it!**

 **Thanks to WordWeaver81 and Lana Brown for reviewing!**


	70. Katie's Mommy and Daddy

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Katie's Mommy and Daddy

* * *

He loved everything about his daughter.

He loved her wisps of blond hair and her bright eyes.

The way she almost smiled at him.

The way she just lay in his arms, content as a cucumber.

He loved it when she cried because that meant she needed something and he just had to figure out what that something was.

He even loved her diapers.

Okay, he didn't love what was _in_ her diapers.

But rather the fact that she was simply _there_.

And he could take care of her.

After the initial freak out . . .

"Uh, Emma, uh, are you sure it's okay?"

"What do you mean?"

"Uh, well, I mean, she's a girl and I'm a boy and I don't want to mess her up or anything-"

A gentle chuckle. A reassuring smooch on the cheek.

"Dylan, you're her dad and you're cleaning her body so she can be clean and not get an infection. You're not going to mess her up."

Then she grinned and smacked his rump teasingly.

"Plus, you're not getting off that easy. I'm not changing all these diapers by myself."

He took a deep, shaky breath, nodding.

"O-okay. Show me what to do."

. . . that was.

He loved that she was an incredible combination of both him and Emma.

He loved that she fell asleep on his chest and clenched her tiny hand around his finger.

He loved that she was alive and here and that he and Emma were going to raise her in a loving, stable, supportive family.

And he loved that he was her dad.

"I love you, Katie. I love you so much."

And that she was his daughter.

* * *

Emma took care of him when he needed it.

And didn't judge.

Just like he took care of her when she needed it.

That was what they did for each other.

Took care of each through everything, good and bad.

And parents.

"I talked to my dad today."

"Oh yeah?"

"He's going on a date tonight."

"Wow."

A pause.

"Yeah, he met her in the hot beverage section of the market and 'ooohed' and 'ahhhhed' the most over Katie photos."

A pause.

And Dylan carefully ventured.

"How do you feel about that?"

Slight shrug, half smile.

"I'm happy for him. He pretty much gave up his life to take care of me so I'm glad that he can go out and have a life now."

Distant-eyed consideration even as she played with the chubby fingers of her baby daughter's moist left hand.

"I just hope she's better to him than my mom was."

They were quiet for a moment.

Emma never really much talked about her mom.

Dylan thought she might think about her alot, especially now with Katie in their lives.

But if she was, she didn't seem to be turning it inward.

But was using it to give herself strength and perspective for Kate.

She was the strongest person he had ever known.

And he loved her.

 _I don't deserve you, Emma._

 _But I want to._

 _I love you._

* * *

"Dylan, would you get me the . . ."

"Receiving blanket?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Hey, Emma, where's the . . ."

"Diaper cream?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Crying babies and sleep deprivation have the capability of turning even the most intelligent of humans into . . .

"Where's the, um . . ."

"Nose plunger?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, gosh, uhhh, I don't know."

. . . barely verbal idiots.

But they were still doing a pretty good job nevertheless.

"Dylan? I love you."

Who loved their daughter.

"I love you too."

And each other.

* * *

 **Fluffy, fluffy, fluff.**

 **I hope you liked it.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown for reading!**


	71. Life in the Sun

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Life in the Sun

* * *

Dylan Masset loved his Seattle home.

They had found it to rent a month before the . . .

"Dad, I don't want to hurt your feelings but . . .

"Not another word, baby girl. You've got a new lease on life. You've got to take it. I'm so proud of you."

. . . arrival of sweet Kate

A small, two bedroom, two bath suburban dwelling.

Dining room/living room combo.

Small but efficient kitchen.

Their bedroom, complete now with a cosleeper thing for the baby.

Two bathrooms stocked with bubbly bath soap and Emma's ever present . . .

"Small price to pay for life."

. . . immunosuppressant medications.

And Katie's room, where so far she was changed and took the occasional nap . .

"Just fifteen minutes, sweet baby, okay?"

"Fifteen minutes? I wouldn't mind more."

"We're _starting_ with fifteen minutes."

. . . so Mommy and Daddy could have some private time.

There was a patio out back complete with a grill . . .

 _Hey, look at me. I'm a grill guy._

. . . and if they stayed here long enough, he was already planning on hooking up a baby swing to the tree in the front yard.

It was alot like the apartment they had shared with Will.

Except sometimes smellier . . .

"Katie, wow!"

. . . and with slightly less Victorian literature.

Dylan Masset loved his house.

No one had never been attacked with a meat tenderizer . . .

 _"What are you doing?! I told you not to do that!"_

 _"Don't call her a whore!"_

. . . in their little kitchen.

Nobody had ever been shot . . .

 _"It's okay, Norma. It's okay."_

. . . in their cozy bedroom.

Nobody ever screamed or yelled or threw dishes or threatened to kill themselves or any of the other crap that had been the shitstorm of his life up until he had left White Pine Bay with Emma and Will.

Life wasn't perfect.

Katie sometimes pooped so much that tired Daddy Dylan . . .

"Wow, okay, uh, Emma, can you bring some more wet wipes? And call The Exorcist please?"

. . . wondered if her colon was under some sort of demonic possession.

He had to practice staying calm whenever Emma got a cold.

 _It's okay, it's alright, that's why we're in Seattle. That respiratory center is the best in the country. Just stay calm._

And whenever he stubbed his toe on the crib.

"Oww, son of a b- button, that hurt!"

But it was a great life, better than he ever imagined life could be.

Seattle had its ups and downs.

 _What is it with the Pacific Northwest? Doesn't it ever stop raining?_

But at least he'd never run anybody down in a truck here.

Almost gotten killed protecting a pot field.

Or had any sort of crazy parental figure dealings . . .

"Dylan, I just want to tell you one thing."

"If I hurt your daughter, you'll kill me?"

"No. I'm proud of you."

"Oh. Th-thanks, Will."

. . . at all, fact.

And liked it that way.

He had a real legit job as a hops distribution manager. Just earned a promotion, in fact.

He paid his taxes.

He took out the trash.

And he loved his family.

* * *

"Hey, there's the birthday girl."

He set the grilled corn on the stove top as his beautiful wife turned to face him.

They were beautiful, Emma and Katie.

"How're my girls?"

Emma was a wonderful mother.

Katie was a wonderful baby.

"She was a little fussy but she's calmed down now."

 _Ah yes, the power of the pacifier. And the Mommy._

And grateful Daddy Dylan . . .

"How did I get so lucky?"

. . . was just glad to be a part of them.

Emma'a dark eyes were warm, as always.

Haircut still something he was getting used to.

"I've got a baby now, Dylan, and I'm not going to be fussy with her just because my hair's getting in my way."

"Huh, good point."

"Of course, it is."

But change was good.

 _Their_ changes anyway.

"Well, you had quite a tour of duty in the lower levels of Hell, so . . ."

That was his sweet Emma, reminding him he hadn't been the crazy one all along.

 _Yeah, but I'm better now, Emma. It's all better._

 _Because of you._

 _I'd be nothing without you._ _Worse than nothing._

 _I'd be me without you._

And that she believed in him. Loved him.

That they were free.

He was happy for her, that she felt free.

It made his prison of lies easier to live within.

 _Emma's happy. Emma's not being hurt by this._

 _This is why I lie._

 _Because I don't know anyway._

And now Katie.

Katie.

After two months of parenthood, he still didn't always know exactly what he was doing with her . . .

"Here, give her to me."

. . . but he knew he was going to figure it out.

And be the best dad and husband he could.

"You go enjoy your party."

Forever.

"I gotcha, I gotcha."

 _I'll always gotcha, sweet girl._

He cradled his baby girl in his arms, fussing a little with her pacifier.

Watching his beautiful, strong, gentle wife amble toward the buffet of party food they had set out. . .

"Wow, twenty-one, huh? You're getting on up there, Decody."

Emma grinning sweetly.

"That's right, Massett. I'm going to live forever too so you just better get used to the idea."

Catching his lips with her own warm ones, those delicate, strong fingers soft on the nape of his neck.

"You better," he murmured, pulling her close. "You've promised now."

It was a joke, laughing in the dark, whistling through the graveyard.

Those lungs of hers wouldn't last forever, there was no telling how much longer they had.

But they were living life while they had it. Appreciating the blessing.

Living in the sun.

Which was pretty great.

And quite a feat considering the climate of Seattle, Washington.

. . . and knowing he loved her more than anything in the whole world.

And Dylan Massett was very, very grateful.

 _I love you, Emma._

 _I love you, Katie._

* * *

She just wanted everything to be nice.

Norma.

That was why she had always had trouble feeling anything but resentiment and disdain for him.

He was a constant reminder of an entire era of her life when things had not been nice.

When they had moved, Norma and Norman, she had cast aside everything that reminded her of the misery in which she had lived for the entirety of her life previous.

Everything except Norman.

Who, if their names were anything to go by, completed her.

And Dylan was no part of any of that.

And therefore, unwelcome.

The end.

Roll credits

Dylan guessed he understood.

More than before.

He and Emma and Will had moved resolutely forward upon arriving in Seattle.

And more so now he and Emma since the advent of the existence of Katie.

And Dylan knew a little of how Norma must have felt when Caleb showed up on their doorstep during . . .

 _Shitshitshit._

. . . Emma's birthday party.

 _Terrible timing, man._

And Dylan did not know . . .

 _Shit._

. . . what to do.

* * *

 **Alright, here we go with season 5! You all ready?**

 **I won't lie, it's gonna be a long haul and I should know because it was a long haul writing it. I'm exhausted.**

 **Maybe not daily updates but close to it.**

 **Thanks to DinahRay for your sweet review!**


	72. Clouded Over

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Clouded Over

* * *

Dylan had heard the doorbell over the sound of birthday guests' chatter and the Spotify playlist Emma had cranked up for the party.

But he hadn't really thought it.

 _Might be Terry and Jim, they said they might be a little late._

It wasn't.

Instead . . .

"Caleb's here."

Emma's beautiful face, so happy and healthy and content even when . . .

"Come on, Katie, come on, baby girl . . ."

. . . she was tired and worn out and having a tough day . . .

". . . what is it, honey, hmmm, why're you crying?"

. . . was now carefully blank and her voice was even.

As she announced the advent of his estranged, wanted, rapist uncle-father . . .

 _Shit._

. . . suddenly back into their lives.

He looked the same as always.

Desheveled. Hungover. Beraggled.

Battered.

Like he had lived a rough and wandering life.

With no one to really care about what happened to him.

Except his sister.

Whom he had raped.

Had a son by.

And proceeded to wander in and out of people's lives like a shambling mess of a human being . . .

". . . wouldn't notice or something?! Well guess what?! I noticed! So go to Hell!"

. . . just screwing things up wherever he went.

 _What the hell, why are you here, Caleb? After all this time, why?_

"Heyyy . . ."

The well-meaning bastard instantly . . .

 _Don't look at my daughter. Don't see her. Don't leech off her._

. . . latched his hungry gaze onto the tiny baby in Dylan's arms.

 _Shit_.

"Yeah, she's ours."

It was the first time since Katie had been born, nay _conceived_ , that Dylan had not wanted to show her off.

A picture . . .

"Hey, Dylan got any new pics?"

"Oh yeah, sure, hang on a sec."

Whipping out his phone in an instant.

A story . . .

"And seriously, she just, like, almost _smiled_ , no kidding."

Any chance at all . . .

"Yeah, I think me and the girls are going to the SAM this weekend, you know get out of the house together for a while . . ."

. . . to be proud of his special little family.

But now . . .

 _Please don't. Please don't soil her with . . . you._

But the damn bastard's craggy face was so needing, so full of yearning . . .

 _Shit._

. . . that Dylan felt he had no choice.

 _Emma, help?_

But to . . .

"Can I hold her?"

 _No._

. . . hand his helpless infant daughter over . . .

"Yeah."

. . . to the man who had repeatedly raped his own sister he professed to love.

"Hello, Kate."

 _Why do you know my daughter's name? You're not supposed to know my daughter's name without permission._

And accidently created . . .

 _And I didn't give you permission._

. . . him.

Caleb Calhoun was holding Katie in his dirty, mother-raping hands . . .

 _Don't make her dirty._

. . . and Dylan could barely register Emma's gentle, grounding palm caressing the back of his neck, supporting him, holding him up . . .

 _Give her back to me now please._

. . . because he did not like it.

At all.

"I was looking at pictures on Emma's Facebook . . ."

 _Dammit, Em._

". . . not to sound creepy . . ."

 _Yeah, no, you're way beyond creepy, Caleb._

". . . but it was a way to make sure you were both okay."

 _Calling, also. Oh, wait, right. Well, still, I didn't want you to do that anyway._

"And I saw the baby and I had to come."

 _No, you didn't._

Caleb smiled then and Dylan could almost believe . . .

 _No, don't do that. Don't be human._

. . . that guy wasn't going to screw everything he had worked so hard for here up . . .

"Oh man, Norma Louise . . ."

. . . just by being who he was.

". . . must be over the moon about this."

 _Well, about that-_

And the thing was, she would be.

 _"Hey, Dylan, I hope you didn't mind, I made a quilt for the baby's room, is it okay if I bring it up one day? Stay the weekend? Maybe I can babysit and you and Emma can go out and grab a bite or go to a movie or something, just the two of you?"_

 _"Yeah, sure, thanks, Norma. That sounds great. When would you like to come up?"_

Except he hadn't had any contact with her or Norman since Norman had shut him down . . .

"Goodbye, Dylan."

. . . and Emma . . .

". . . clear conscience, you tried."

. . . had absolved him of any further . . .

". . . in the sun."

. . . Bates-based obligations.

But Caleb . . .

"What?"

. . . had been gone before the real shit hit the fan and had no idea of any of it.

"I, uh, I don't really talk to my mom or Norman anymore."

Caleb looked distraught.

 _Happy birthday, Em. I'm sorry._

"What happened?"

 _Well, let's see Norman is insane and Norma enables him and tries to make me do it too._

 _Oh and Norman might have done something to Emma's mom but I'm not sure._

 _Look, I really-_

". . . don't want to talk about it."

 _Went almost an entire day without thinking about it, in fact._

 _Thanks, Caleb._

And then he just suddenly felt overwhelmed with all the shit that was still there, would always be there, every damn day of his entire damn _life_ , infecting his family, making everything sick and ill at ease.

Sitting between them like a silent, festering deadhead.

And he couldn't stand it.

Dylan Brian Massett reached out and _calmly_ took his pure, innocent baby daughter back from his unwanted, uninvited, intrusive, screw-up, deadbeat, mother-raping uncle-father's . . .

 _Been driving awhile, have you?_

. . . slightly grungy embrace.

Caleb Calhoun and his slightly musty appearance wouldn't be deterred.

"But there's a grandkid involved now."

Dylan Massett clung to his baby girl protectively.

 _What makes you think I would want my child around those psychos?_

 _And don't tell me what to do with my own daughter._

 _She's my child not yours. And not Norma's._

 _Neither of you was ever any kind of decent parent to me-_

 _I'm sorry, Katie. You were never supposed to be involved with this nut._

Dylan laser focused in on Katie. Drinking her in.

Adjusting her hat. . .

 _Oh, I'm sorry, Katie, he messed it up, god. Let me just-_

. . . so she wouldn't get cold . . .

 _You okay, baby? He didn't hurt you, did he?_

. . . Emma tried to change the course of Titanic.

"Where are you staying, Caleb?"

 _Oh shit, Emma, no-_

"I haven't checked in anywhere yet."

 _Of course you haven't. Because . . ._

"Truth is, I'm running a little low on funds . . ."

 _Yep. And . . ._

"It took a lot of effort to get over the border . . ."

 _Still wanted? Well, not by me-_

". . . stay here for a few nights . . ."

 _Oh god, no._

". . . figure out what I was doing."

 _No._

"Yeah, of course, you can."

 _Dammit, Emma. What the . . ._

". . . room, but I hope . . ."

 _. . . hell?_

". . . couch is okay."

 _No. He'll rape it. And then cry about it._

 _I don't want him in my house, Emma._

". . . great . . ."

 _My life._

". . . stuff somewhere?"

 _Yeah. Not here._

". . . in our room."

 _What? No, I don't want him or his stuff in my house._

 _My world._

". . . down the hall."

 _The world._

"Thanks. Oh man."

And as Dylan Massett clung to his daughter, Emma Decody who usually understood him and supported him so well . . .

"Yeah, sure."

Went right ahead and invited that vampire . . .

 _'Cause he sucks up your soul, Em-_

. . . bastard of an uncle-father . . .

 _I don't want him to suck Katie's soul, Em. She's not strong enough-_

. . . right into their home and lives.

And Dylan Massett had let her.

And him.

And . . .

 _Shit._

. . . now there would be no getting rid of the scummy, needy, mother-raping weasel.

He was beyond embarrassed . . .

"I'm sorry, Emma."

. . . and ashamed.

She, however was just as gracious to him . . .

"No, it's okay. It's alright."

. . . because he was a manipulative, lying, scummy weasel too . . .

 _The hell it is._

. . . even though he tried to tell himself he had been trying . . .

 _He'll never leave now._

. . . to change and be better for Emma . . .

 _He touched Katie, Em. He touched her._

. . . and Katie.

But that didn't make it . . .

 _I can't believe he touched her . . ._

. . . any better.

* * *

 **Okay, clearly, Dylan quietly becomes more and more unhinged as this scenario progresses. The poor baby probably has motion sickness there, poor thing.**

 **But I get it I really do.**

 **Seriously.**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and WordWeaver81 for your reviews!**


	73. Crowded House

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Crowded House

* * *

With all the aplomb and scratch dignity he could muster, Caleb Calhoun . . .

"Hey, I'm Caleb. I'm, uh, a family friend from out of town."

. . . showed himself to be gracious and appreciative and low-key . . .

"Oh here, let me take a picture of you guys for you. A new one for Facebook."

. . . for the reminder of the party.

". . . place is really nice."

After the party .

"Here, I'll take out that garbage."

And on into the night.

"Can I feed her? I never got a chance to before."

And Dylan found himself being slowly lulled . . .

" . . . nice place you guys got here."

. . . into wondering if he had been . . .

". . . missed you guys . . ."

. . . too rough on the guy.

". . . good to see you again."

But the fact remained that no matter how much Caleb cooed over Katie.

"She's so amazing, Emma."

Expressed pride at Dylan's new job . . .

"A promotion, really? I don't think I ever had a legit _job_ much less a promotion."

. . . Or complimented Emma . . .

"Oh, man, Emma, you're such a natural mother . . ."

. . . on her calmness regarding her daughter.

". . . happy baby."

Caleb Calhoun was still . . .

"Oh man, it would be so great to get to see you guys more often."

. . . someone Dylan did not want as a constant in his new life.

"I could babysit, take her to the park . . ."

But he could be damned if he could think . . .

". . . part of a real family."

. . . of a way out of it.

* * *

Laying in bed together that night.

Emma seeming to sense that Dylan needed that closeness between them.

Carefully nestling the sleeping Katie into her bassinet.

Climbing into bed.

Laying on her side, gazing into her husband's eyes.

That husband who needed her so.

Needed her calmness, her strength, her support.

As he lay there, on his back.

Left arm up, hand tucked under head.

That head so full of swirling dark thoughts.

Turned to the right.

To his wife.

Her hands on his shoulder closest her.

Light physical contact grounding him.

Dark eyes searching him, seeing into him.

Knowing him.

Everything about him.

Except the secret.

The dark secret.

The bad secret.

The Audrey secret.

"Crazy day, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry he messed up your birthday."

"It's okay, it's not your fault."

 _No, it's frickin' Facebook's._

He lay there, gazing at her.

Emma.

So beautiful and pure and delicate and perfect.

Laying there against funky patterned sheets she'd purchased for them.

So beautiful and amazing.

On a normal night he might try to kiss her.

Touch her.

Make love to her if she was feeling up to it.

 _Hey, happy birthday. Let me return the favor._

But today had been a really weird day.

Caleb was in the living room on their couch.

And Dylan was still kinda freaked out about it.

So he just lay there with her.

Warm and still and . . .

"I don't know what I would do without you, Emma. You're so amazing. You're everything. I love you."

Her smile was gentle and warm.

"I love you too, Dylan. And you're better than you think. You always have been . . ."

 _No, I haven't._

". . . and you've come so far, don't let Caleb being here take that away from you."

He wanted to believe the good things about himself.

"Okay."

He tried.

"I love you."

"I love you."

But he couldn't.

* * *

When he woke up that morning, it all seemed like a dream.

He was laying in his bed, wife bundled up under the covers beside him.

The simple white walls soothing, not dull or boring.

The soft light coming through the sheer curtains made him feel safe and shielded from any of the bad outside in the world.

It must have been a dream, Caleb showing up out of the blue.

 _Man, what was in that dip? Emma, you okay?_

Katie was gurgling a little in her crib and Emma . . .

 _God, you're so beautiful even when you're asleep._

. . . was still knocked out next to him.

He leaned over and nuzzled her ear . . .

"I'm going to get up with Katie, you get some sleep."

. . . causing her to murmur something throaty and graze a hand along his bearded jawline . . .

 _I love you, Emma._

. . . before settling back down into restful sleep.

Dylan eased carefully out of bed, shrugged into some functional clothes.

 _I'm coming, Katie . . ._

And gathered his wiggly little daughter . . .

"Hey, baby girl . . ."

. . . up in his arms . . .

"Hey, come play with me . . ."

. . . and exited the room, pulling the door closed quietly behind them.

He changed Emma's diaper in her room.

Wiped her little face.

Kissed her little hands.

And generally . . .

"I love you, Katie. I love you."

. . . spent some quality time with his little girl.

He didn't really think anymore about Caleb . . .

"Hey, do you have any coffee?"

 _Oh shit, heyyy-_

 _Emma drinks tea._

"No, sorry."

. . . until he wandered into the kitchen to make her a bottle.

"You sleep well?"

 _Not with you here._

"Yeah, good. You?"

Caleb's crooked grin was almost endearing.

"Oh man, yeah, your couch is way more comfortable than that van."

 _Well, maybe you should get a couch._

 _Oh, yeah, it wouldn't fit in your van, would it?_

"Hey, Katie, good morning, sweetie . . ."

But Caleb was clearly trying so hard . . .

"Hey, why don't we all go out for breakfast?"

 _How're you going to pay?_

"Emma's sleeping in. She's tired."

 _And you're 'low on funds'._

"Oh right, my bad."

Sheepish grin.

'Cause Caleb was a perpetual screw-up.

"Oh, why don't I go get some famous Seattle coffee and bagels for breakfast?"

 _Yeah, go nuts._

"Only . . ."

 _Of course._

"Yeah, yeah, I got it . . . here's some cash."

His uncle-father's craggy face was appropriately appreciative and humble . . .

"Thanks, Dylan. I promise I'll pay you back . . ."

 _By leaving?_

". . . soon, man."

 _Sure. Whatever._

And then, the scrounging, sorry excuse for a father figure shambled on out of the door . . .

 _God, Katie, I'm so sorry-_

. . . and left Dylan alone with the wispy remains of his shattered 'phantom father' dreams.

* * *

 **Thanks to Lana Brown and WordWeaver81 for your reviews!**

 **WordWeaver81, you are so right, I'm glad to see people respecting their children as humans.**


	74. Stuck in the Middle with You

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Stuck in the Middle with You

* * *

He could see so much differently now.

He had known how horrible what Caleb had done was of course.

But being around the guy all the time had started numbing him to it.

 _What the hell, it's just me anyway._

 _And I can't keep the secret from myself, right? Just everybody else._

But now there was Emma

". . . come into the world the way we come into the world . . ."

Who was tough enough to not only handle it in short spurts . . .

 _Spurts, oh god, ugh,_

. . . but to accept and heal him . . .

". . . not our choice . . ."

. . . a few simple, heartfelt words . . .

". . . least we're here."

. . . Dylan Massett would never forget as long as he lived.

Being around her, Will.

Seeing how normal people acted.

Treated each other.

Helped one another.

Loved one another.

Real, healthy love.

Not psycho love like Norma and Norman.

Made him want to be like that.

 _I want to be okay. I want to be with others that are okay._

Not perfect.

"Sorry I snored. Stupid sinus infection."

"Oh, that's okay. A few months of pregnancy and I'll be snoring like a freight train."

And he had worked on it.

Every day.

And the more he had been with them, the easier it had become.

Until now . . .

 _"_ Feeling good. What about you, Emma?"

"Great. CF free."

. . . Most days he felt like a decent, good person.

So long as . . .

 _If I didn't hate it and fear it so much, I'd think it sounded like a country song._

. . . he didn't think too much about Audrey's earring.

 _Audrey's earrings, they give me the fits, make me cry, give me the shits . . ._

* * *

He sat on floor and did the best thing he could imagine.

Okay, second best thing he could ever imagine.

"Hey . . . Hey . . ."

Dylan Massett spent time with his daughter.

"Hey, Katie."

Little Katie.

Fluffy, furry blanket under her.

Cuddled up warm in her crawler.

Her hat.

He liked to touch her.

Play with the buttons on her crawler.

Adjust her hat.

Pull down her sleeves.

He liked making things better for her, making everything alright.

When she burbled and cooed and spit and kicked and squirmed, it let him know she was okay.

That she was safe and loved and well cared for.

That he was doing well by her.

Her and Emma.

Mostly.

Except for the lying, the hiding.

The past he could never get rid of.

The past that showed up from out of nowhere . . .

 _Maybe he'll get lost on his way from the bagel shop and never come back again_.

Not . . . hurt.

Just gone

Just . . . gone.

 _What am I going to do, Katie?_

 _If he stays, I'll have to lie to you forever about who he is._

 _Or have you know the truth._

 _See your precious eyes look at me like that._

 _I can't do it._

 _And I can't lie about anything else._

He had spent most of his life lying about one thing or another.

 _Yeah, that my stepdad, Sam. He's cool._

 _Oh, my mom? Yeah, she loves me._

 _What do I do? Oh, uh, I'm in . . . herbal agriculture._

Sometimes a myriad of lies all at once.

 _Bradley Martin is dead._

 _I didn't run over a guy with my dead friend's truck._

 _Norman didn't hurt Blair Watson._

 _Or Emma's mom._

And he just didn't want to lie anymore.

Especially to his daughter.

"Hi . . . hi . . ."

He could swear she was saying 'hi' back as she gurgled and cooed at him.

And suddenly, even better, there was Emma.

Emma.

Emma, beautiful and relaxed and simple in her flannel blue palm tree pajamas.

Flannel. Blue palm tree.

 _Okay_.

"Good morning."

Beautiful Emma.

"You get some sleep?"

She insisted he sleep at night during the week so he could go to work and be at his best.

She, she reminded him, could sleep when Katie slept but he really shouldn't allow himself to sleep under the desk at work.

 _Bosses usually frown on that_ , she reminded him, squincing up her nose in that cute, teasing way that made him . . .

 _Smoosh_.

. . . smile back so fondly.

So he got up early on weekends and holidays, giving Emma . . .

"Yeah, I did. And it was amazing."

. . . some much needed catchup sleep.

"Where's Caleb?"

 _Hopefully getting permanently lost . . ._

". . . town to get some bagels and coffee."

. . . _the depths of Seattle forever._

"Aww, that's sweet."

Be sweeter if he used his own money. Low funds and all.

Not dead. Not hurt.

Just . . . gone.

But . . .

". . . get the feeling he want to move here . . . to Seattle . . . to be near us."

 _I don't want him to, Em._

 _I was feeling so much better._

 _So much cleaner._

Emma's lovely round face was carefully blank.

"Yeah, I got that feeling too."

He gazed at her . . .

 _Come on, Em. Say it for me._

 _Say it for me so I don't have to._

But she wasn't going to.

Emma Decody Massett was a woman who was patient and loving with her flawed husband.

Patient and wise enough that sometimes she let him talk and work things out for himself.

Let him say what _he_ needed to say.

So he would be stronger for it.

Now . . .

"I don't know what to say to him."

 _Other than 'hell no'._

. . . was one of those times.

"I mean, he's my dad . . ."

 _He's also my uncle. Urgh._

 _I mean, come on, right-_

". . . he's trying to make an effort."

 _I wish he wouldn't._

"The truth is, Em . . ."

 _Oh hey, another secret, well, at least this one isn't a soul killer._

". . . Caleb came up with a bunch of money . . .

 _Beat the crap out of Chick Hogan for it._

". . . to help pay for your transplant."

 _It was extremely illegal and . . ._

". . . really dangerous . . .

 _. . . they tried to kill us, Emma. I thought I would die and never see you again and then you would die too._

". . . but he did it because he knew how much I loved you."

 _Did you know I loved you then, Emma?_

And his beloved wife's eyes softened . . .

"Really?"

. . . as she absorbed this new information regarding the man who had once repeatedly raped his own sister day in and day out.

"Yeah."

 _So now I feel like I owe him or something._

 _Because you and Katie and I wouldn't be here now if he hadn't beaten the shit out of Chick._

 _And stolen his money._

"He didn't want me to tell you and I didn't want to tell you . . ."

 _You don't owe me anything, Emma. You never owe me anything._

 _I owe you everything._

"I feel like we're the only family that he has . . ."

 _You know, 'cause who'd want to be with that-_

". . . and he can't go live near Norma . . ."

 _I mean, seriously-_

". . . how can I turn him away?"

 _He's alone and empty and I used to feel like that._

"I feel like I have to give him a chance . . ."

 _But I just really don't want to._

 _I have a new life here._

 _A normal, healthy, better life._

 _Better than I've ever had._

 _I'll be carrying him amd his secret and his burden forever, all the time of he's here._

 _I've been so much happier lately, Em, so much happier and free . . ._

 _Except for Audrey . . ._

". . . earring?"

 _. . . and cleaned out lately._

 _With Will._

 _With you._

 _Especially with Katie._

"I don't know . . . I just don't know . . ."

He took a breath and exhaled it out in a burst feeling like he was trying to get rid of all of the shit that just wouldn't go away just by emptying his lungs.

And then because she was another reason he was alive in this world, Dylan Massett looked down at his daughter.

His baby girl.

He couldn't figure out a way to fix the Audrey issue.

The Norman issue.

The Caleb issue.

But he _could_ fix Katie's clothes.

Her crawler.

Her hat.

Her sleeves.

So he did that.

"I don't know, Kate . . .

 _I just don't know . . ._

 _What do I do?_

* * *

 **What indeed, huh?**

 **Anyway, hope you are still enjoying reading! I don't know if 'enjoy' is the right word though, ha!**


	75. The Telltale Earring Part 2

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

The Telltale Earring Part 2

* * *

Caleb, the screwed up, leeching, mother raping bastard, was gone.

Left. In the middle of the night.

Again.

"At least he left a note this time."

 _You were here, you_ said _you would be here._

 _You_ wanted _to be here._

". . . think it was a good idea even though he'd love to be near us."

 _What the hell, man? Is it pathological or something?_

 _The coffee and bagels weren't good enough?_

 _The couch wasn't comfortable enough?_

 _Katie snuggled too much?_

 _We were too nice?_

"Yeah, I talked to him."

 _What?_

"What did you say?"

He really couldn't imagine sweet, gentle Emma telling his mother-raping, screwed-up bastard uncle-father to get the hell out of her house and never come back.

That was more of a Norma thing.

But not Emma.

She was calm, relaxed.

Maybe a touch anxious that she had taken the situation in her own CF-free hands without consulting him first.

"Just basically the stuff we talked about."

 _Which part?_

"How much pressure it would put on your relationship with Katie."

 _Oh. Yeah._

"He knows you love him."

 _Love's a strong word. How about feel like I_ should _love him?_

 _He fills an uncle-father, weirdass void._

"And he gets it."

 _Of course he does, how could he not? It's repulsive._

 _He's repulsive._

Dylan felt overwhelmed, opposing emotions whirling inside him.

Like something making him sick inside.

"I feel terrible," he admitted.

 _What kind of person rejects someone who doesn't have anyone else?_

"And relieved."

 _Shit, I'm a horrible person._

"And I feel terrible that I feel relieved."

 _Of course, so is he._

"It's not your fault, Dylan."

Emma's expression was gentle, compassionate.

"You can't fix something that happened before you born."

As if she truly _believed_ what she was saying.

"And you've done the best you possibly could."

 _Then why does it keep getting screwed up?_

"Look,we're trying to live a life in the sun here."

 _Sun, yeah, sun._

"No secrets."

 _Ummm . . ._

"It's a good path, let's just try and stay on it."

 _Yeah, except I've never exactly been on it, Emma._

 _See, there's this big secret-_

". . . hard it is. I feel the same way about my mom."

 _Yep, that's the one._

"I wish Katie could know her . . ."

 _Yeah, about that . . ._

". . . and Caleb."

 _Why?_ I _don't want her to know Caleb._

"But I just don't think it would be in anyone's best interests."

 _Plus, Norman might have done something to her._

"Katie will be short on grandparents but at least she'll live in an open, honest world."

 _I wish keeping your dreams alive didn't have to involve me lying to you, Emma._

"Especially between us."

And he could barely look into those dark, warm, trusting eyes anymore.

"I hope so."

His guilt and shame were too great.

 _I'm sorry, Emma. I'm-_

And he just couldn't.

* * *

A few days passed.

Almost a week.

Things normalised out. Life moved on.

Because life, with or without an infant, moves on.

On and on and on and on.

Over and over and over and over.

Laundry.

Bills.

Work.

Meals.

Diapers.

More laundry.

More laundry.

 _Always_ laundry.

Dylan helped of his own accord.

He helped with everything.

One or two of his buddies had tried to tease him . . .

". . . special brand of fabric softener, Dylan?"

But he remained unaffected.

"Whatever, man. We work together."

So he wasn't really thinking about much of anything . . .

 _Mmm, Downy smells good._

 _Not as good as Emma's hair._

 _Or Katie's baby breath._

. . . as he traversed the foyer carrying the most recently washed basket of . . .

. . . _bath later. I love the way she looks at me when I hold her safe in the tub._

. . . laundered towels.

Emma had been digging around in the secretary's desk her dad had found to . . .

"Not very modern but it's a sturdy piece and I got it for a good price-"

"It's great, Dad, thanks."

"Yeah, thanks, Will."

. . . furnish their place with.

And for once he had . . .

. . . _walk later. Just up and down the block. Katie'd like that, I think._

. . . forgotten to remember to worry that Emma would find Audrey's gypsy earring hidden away.

. . . _takeout for dinner. It's in the budget._

But all of a sudden . . .

"I was looking for stamps and found this."

. . . out of nowhere . . .

"It's your mom's, right?"

. . . there it was.

Audrey's earring.

Laying there.

In Emma's outstretched palm.

Smeared with Norman'a DNA.

Norma's.

His.

Just like Keith Summers' belt.

And now Emma's DNA as well.

"Yeah."

 _Shitshitshitshit-_

Emma's entire aura was kind and accepting . . .

"It's okay, I get why you kept it-"

 _Really 'cause I don't._

. . . and completely misunderstanding . . .

"Do you want me to put it back-"

 _Burn it._

. . . of the entire situation.

Compassionate and loving and all the things he did not deserve.

"No, it's okay . . ."

Ever.

". . . it's not a big deal."

 _Lie._

"Stamps are in the bedside table."

' _Cause that's where we keep stamps apparently._

"Here, I'll . . ."

 _Go on now. So I can continue to obstruct justice._

". . . clean this stuff up."

And she did.

She smiled and patted his arm.

And went on to find the stamps before she forgot what it was she had been looking for.

Never suspecting that her loving, gentle, trustworthy husband.

Was actually a lying conniving, manipulative, piece of shit that was keeping a big, dark, ugly secret from her.

By stowing it carefully away back in a different part of the slightly worn hunk of pine wood.

While numbly still holding on to the plastic laundry basket . . .

 _Hurry up, hurry up, got towels to roll._

. . . trying to appear nonchalant . . .

 _There, safe out of the way, out of sight, out of mind . . ._

. . . and calm the sick stone of lead that had suddenly formed in the pit of his stomach.

 _I am such a bastard._

* * *

That night, as they lay in bed, when Emma touched him with teasing . . .

"Katie's sleeping."

. . . trailing her lips along his neck just how he liked . . .

"I was thinking we could . . ."

. . . and her fingers trailed along his flesh . . .

". . . If you're interested . . ."

. . . he turned her . . .

"I'm sorry. I'm a little tired."

. . . away.

It was the first in two years he had ever turned her down.

Because it was Emma.

Emma.

And she was all he ever wanted, ever needed, ever desired.

But he just . . .

 _Shitshitshitshit . . ._

. . . couldn't have a thought like that at all at the time.

Which was obviously . . .

"Oh. Alright. You okay?"

. . . not usually . . .

"Yeah, just tired."

. . . like him.

"Okay."

But he just couldn't . . .

"Can I stay close though?"

. . . violate her trust like that . . .

"Yeah, of course. Come here."

. . . not with the vision of her holding her dead . . .

 _I don't know that._

. . . mother's earring in her hand . . .

 _I have no proof._

. . . so clear and close in his mind.

"Good night, Dylan."

"Good night, Emma."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

 _And I always will._

 _But you won't._

 _One day you won't._

* * *

"How much I want to be a part of it and never am ."

"You too?"

"Yeah."

He had thought about that alot.

 _Weird. Emma has a dad that loves her._

 _A good dad._

 _Why would she want that?_

He knew why he did.

He just wanted a family.

People he could turn to if things got dark and heavy and bad.

He never had any one who cared for him an iota of what Norma cared for Norman .

Someone who would do anything for you.

Love you, no matter what.

And then he realized, that's what Emma missed too.

A mom who was always there for you.

Loved you more than anything in the world.

Worshipped the ground you walked on.

Dylan and Emma would never have that for themselves.

That unconditional parental love.

Well, Will.

And he was pretty great.

But the rest would never be theirs.

But they did have each other, for as long as Emma's new lungs held out anyway.

And now little Katie.

They could truly be a family.

Not in the sick, messed up way that Norma and Norman had.

But good. Healthy.

Happy.

And even when they weren't happy, together.

Supportive.. loving .

Sticking through it.

Always there for each other.

If only Dylan didn't have to lie.

* * *

 **Honestly, people. _Why_ didn't Dylan just throw it away?**

 **grrrr . . .**

 **Thank you, Lana Brown for still being out there and reviewing!**


	76. Dumbass Superpower

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Dumbass Superpower

* * *

He'd tried so hard at the time, to get Norma to see the danger in Norman.

The danger in protecting him at the cost of other possible innocents.

But she wouldn't.

And he hadn't been brave enough to turn them in himself.

Afraid of what it would do to Norma and Norman.

Emma.

And his chance to be with her.

And so, instead of stay and continue fighting a useless battle, he had taken his chance.

Taken hold of Emma's hand.

And run like hell to Seattle.

He had convinced himself it was over for him then, left behind in White Pine Bay.

But here it was again.

The entire life he had built here, the normal, average, peaceful life, on the verge of crumbling all over again.

Two years he and his crazy ass family had managed not to hurt Emma.

And now here she was, here they were, on the verge of being torn apart.

All because . . .

 _Shitshitshitshit_ -

. . . he had been too much of a coward to tell the truth.

 _Earring, earring, stupid earring._

* * *

He had been doing pretty okay in the hours since Emma had found the earring.

"Uhhh, wow, I can't believe I got extra sleep and only ran errands and I'm _still_ tired."

"Oh, it's okay. Why don't you go get some rest and I'll take care of Katie?"

"Oh, thank you, Dylan. I'll set my alarm for an hour."

Sweet kiss.

"Make it two and I'll make some lunch. Spaghetti okay?"

"Sounds great."

Sweet kiss number two.

And now here he was.

Rocking bottles . . ."

"Oh, it's still hot, it's still hot . . ."

. . . and boiling water . . ."

 _Spaghetti in the water, not the baby. Spaghetti in the water, not the baby_ . . .

. . . way too distracted to be even thinking about . . .

"Multitasking got the best of you?"

Sweet smile from his kind, supportive wife.

. . . anything else.

 _No. Yeah._

And he thought he was okay.

It was even okay she was taking Katie out of his arms.

". . . both hands to make Mommy an amazing lunch."

 _Wellll_ . . .

". . . settle for edible."

' _Cause, you know, me. I'm currently burning water._

". . . straight out of the box. I'm starving."

 _Ah, come on, Em. You shouldn't have to settle._

"You deserve better than that."

 _You deserve a husband who can at least make spaghetti._

"Dylan, come on. You're doing great. You're too hard on yourself."

 _It's just spaghetti, Em._

"It's gonna be okay."

 _Yeah, if I burn the pasta, we can just have sandwiches._

But Emma wasn't really talking about lunch anymore.

And Dylan knew it.

And she knew that he knew it.

"Can we talk about the earring?"

Even though he wished they were.

 _No. I do not want to talk about your maybe dead mother's earring._

But he turned around anyway.

He had no choice.

He wasn't deaf. And his wife knew it.

 _Dammit_.

Muscles clenching up, mouth going dry, heart thudding like a heavy, thick, ill brick.

". . . earring for a reason . . ."

 _Yeah. Evidence. Stupidity._

". . . you say that door is closed . . ."

 _Yep_.

". . . are no absolutes . . ."

 _Yes, there are. I absolutely love you and Katie. Norman's absolutely crazy and dangerous. My mother's absolutely nuts-_

". . . consider reaching out to your mom . . ."

 _No_.

This wasn't about his mom.

This was about her mom.

Her maybe dead mom.

But even if it were just about his mom, it was still a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad idea.

And he hated it.

 _I don't want to go back to the way I was before, always fighting against them and their shit._

 _I've come so far and I don't want to go back._

 _Do you want me to go back?_

 _And anyways, the earring isn't about Norma, it's about your mom._

 _And I don't want to hurt you like that._

 _It's too big._

 _And I don't want you to hate me and you will._

 _I'll lose you and Katie._

 _And I don't want that._

 _So just back the hell off._

Norma is worst idea, almost as bad as Norman.

 _Just back the hell_ off _._

But Emma Lillian Decody Massett never backed the hell off anything she didn't want to.

 _I mean, she found a manga book and followed it right to the end of that bastard Shelby._

 _And she had started this whole thing by inviting my mother-raping uncle-father into our home after two years of peace and quiet._

She never would have found the earring in the first place if she hadn't overridden Dylan and invited him in to their home.

He was certain.

It was stupid, illogical thinking.

But Dylan Massett was a stupid dumbass sometimes.

And he had already almost overboiled the water, made his hungry baby girl cry, covered up his half brother's possible homicidal tendencies, killed a man for his mother, found out his uncle was his dad, run over people with a dead buddy's truck . . .

 _It just never ends._

. . . and just that morning accidently stuck his finger . . .

 _Oh for f-_

. . . in disgusting, smelling baby poop this morning.

 _Dammit_.

It had been a rough twenty-five freaking years.

So what came next was unfortunate.

Rude.

Defensive.

Desperate.

And completely strategical.

As his beautiful rock of courage and bravery stood before him trying to talk to about reinstituting contact with his crazyass mother who enabled his crazyass brother who might or might not have done something to his wife's estranged mother, Dylan Massett let his fear control him . . .

 _Shitshitshitshit_ -

. . . and he mouthed off . . .

". . . superpower where you _think_ you know what people want even if it's not what they say . . ."

 _Drop it._

 _Before it kills us._

". . . but it gets really old."

. . . and hurt his wife.

"Sometimes people _do_ actually know what they want without you having to tell them."

She wasn't used to him speaking harshly to her, he never did.

But he had to stop her.

 _And I don't want Norma in my life, Emma._

 _Or Norman._

 _Or Caleb._

 _Or frickin' Audrey's earring._

 _I just want you and me and Katie._

". . . drop the Norma thing . . ."

But there he was.

" . . . that'd be great, okay?"

And there it was.

"Got it."

A little tear in her heart now that Dylan couldn't bear to see.

 _It's for her own good._

One that could probably be mended.

 _I'm protecting her._

Relatively easily.

 _So she never has to deal with what Norman_ might _have done to her mom._

She left the room then with Katie.

And Dylan Massett turned away.

Pretended he hadn't just said all that bad shit to his beautiful, amazing wife that he loved so very much.

And wiped up the stove. Wanting to throw the stupid, freaking pasta pot . . .

 _Because I don't know for sure._

. . . right out the damn window.

 _Shit_.

* * *

And of course the dumbass spaghetti tasted like crap.

* * *

 ***Flinch***

 **Oh Dylan, you dumbass. You're so human.**

 **Well, you know, how it is sometimes. :(**

 **Thanks to Lana Brown, you're such an appreciated reader!**


	77. Screaming Not Screaming

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Screaming/Not Screaming

* * *

Silent as the grave.

Which is a misnomer.

Graves scream so loud sometimes.

The real ones.

 _Sam Bates, Loving Father and Husband? The hell?_

And the imaginary ones.

". . . earring, Norma?!"

"I don't know."

Emma had been subdued for hours.

Beyond quiet.

Talking to Katie.

Taking her to the store alone.

Changing her diaper, feeding her.

And though she did not attempt in any way to keep her from him . . .

"Everything okay?"

"Yep."

. . . she made no gesture to involve him in any way.

She did not look at him.

Did not touch him.

Did not speak to him.

And did not yell at him.

Which seemed to be the worst part of the whole situation .

She just took it.

She did not weep or bathe him in baleful expressions.

No hate nor disdain.

Nor fondness nor love.

She simply . . .

"Come on, Katie. Let's take a nap."

. . . left him alone.

And Dylan . . .

 _Finally some damn peace._

 _God, I hate peace._

. . . found the darkness covering him every passing . . .

 _She'll get over it. And maybe she'll leave it alone now._

. . . hour.

 _But that's not really the point, is it?_

Until he could barely breathe through all the screaming quiet.

She was not punishing him. Emma wasn't like that.

She was just . . . leaving him be.

Alone.

To himself.

And that was somehow . . .

 _Shit_.

. . . worse.

* * *

Right after Katie's second afternoon feeding, Dylan heard Emma come out of their bedroom.

Pad silently across the floor behind him, heading to rinse the bottle in the sink.

Next to the refrigerator full of uneaten . . .

"Sorry the spaghetti is a little tough."

"It's fine."

. . . pasta.

And he knew then . . .

"Emma, we need to talk."

. . . that the time had come.

He had played and lost over a dozen hands of solitaire thinking about it.

 _I promised myself I'd never tell her._

 _I'd protect her from it._

 _I'd lie forever._

 _But she doesn't understand._

 _She can't._

 _She won't._

 _And she never will now._

 _But I'd rather her hate me forever than have her think I hate her._

 _Or think she should be be less than what she is._

 _Which is perfect._

 _This problem is me, not her._

 _And Norman. And Norma._

 _It will never be her._

 _She has to know it's not her._

 _She deserves that._

 _And so much more._

 _But it's just me._

 _And I'm not more._

 _Okay, here goes._

"You need to know why I cut off contact with my mom."

* * *

It did not go well.

. . . _insane_! Why didn't you _tell_ me?!"

Emma was raising her voice . . .

". . . want to scream and yell when we're upset. That was all I ever did with Norma and Norman. Screaming and ignoring and avoidance and shifting blame. I don't ever want us to be like that."

"Okay. When we disagree, we'll just talk."

"Okay."

"And we'll look at each other in the eye so we know we're being honest."

"That's great, thank you, Em."

"You don't have to thank me for being a decent human being, Dylan."

"I know. But I want to."

. . . and Emma never raised her voice in a bad way.

She was on her feet now, face distraught and Dylan . . .

"Because I didn't have any _proof_!"

. . . was too, mirroring her movements.

Raising his voice back, feeling panicked and scared.

". . . say anything because I didn't _know_!"

And he was stumbling over his words and the baby was crying and Emma was looking at him like he'd betrayed her trust . . .

 _Which is exactly what I did._

But not to hurt her, never that.

For her own peace of mind, he had taken the burden and carried it alone for two years.

The burden of fear that Norman had done something-

 _Murdered, you bastard, go ahead say it-_

\- to Emma's mother.

For Emma's own peace of mind.

And Dylan's . . .

"I was a coward and I left . . ."

. . . ability to stay with her.

". . 'cause I wanted to be with you!"

And the baby was still crying and Emma . . .

"I need to go get her."

. . . was drawing away from him, overwhelmed and afraid and confused while Dylan . . .

"No, let me get her."

. . . was just swirling with how much shit had hit the fan so quickly.

 _Will I ever not screw everything up?!_

In the space of one day.

And Emma . . .

"No, you need to get out, you need to take a walk, you need to leave, before I start screaming-"

. . . was for the first time in their marriage sending him away. Kicking him out.

". . . and I don't want Katie to hear that."

And using their daughter . . .

 _Please, Emma, no, Em-_

. . . to do it.

 _\- wait, don't send me away._

 _Is this it?_

 _Is it over?_

 _Are we over?_

 _Oh god._

And then because his wife told him to go and staying would only make everything worse . . .

 _Will the doors be locked when I get back?_

 _Will she have taken Katie and left, gone to her dad's apartment?_

 _Shit._

. . . he left.

And he was very, very afraid he would not be allowed to come back.

* * *

He almost went to a bar.

 _Screwed up anyway._

Drink to forget.

He wanted to.

But he wasn't that guy anymore.

He wasn't that Dylan.

He was a good guy, a responsible guy.

He was a guy with a wife and child now.

And the consideration of a strip club never even crossed his mind.

So Dylan Massett simply trudged out.

Climbed in his blue Ford truck he once been so proud to pay . . .

 _Not broke trash now, huh?_

. . . weed cash for.

And drove to the new bagel shop he had been planning on stopping by sometime anyway.

 _Hey, got any 'I'm sorry my brother might have killed your mom but I didn't know for sure so I lied about it' bagels?_

* * *

Not many pictures of Dylan existed in the 'before' time.

Norma never seemed interested in preserving memories of him much.

Unless he was with Norman, that was.

"Smile, boys! Oh, Norman, you look so sweet in this picture."

"What about me, Mom?"

"What? Oh. Yeah, Dylan, you too."

Now, however, his collection, mostly digital, was growing exponentially.

"Picture of the proud men, eh, Emma?"

Strong Will Decody hand squeezing his shoulder, warm acceptance washing through him.

"Hey, grill guy, wave!"

Tongs aloft, corn, steak, maybe chicken, dangling from.

"Dylan!"

Emma laughing as Dylan wrapped his arms around her from behind, reaching around to smooch her cheek, grinning.

"Okay, proud Momma and Daddy, smile!"

Cradling precious Katie, feeling Emma nestled into the crook of his neck, feeling so proud and alive and in the right place.

He kept a lot on his phone, added to it whenever something good happened.

Something sweet.

Something adorable.

Something hopeful.

Which, up until recently, had been really frequent.

"Dylan, I'm so sorry . . ."

He had just walked in the door, bearing bagel gifts.

Thinking, considering.

Not scheming, he didn't do that anymore.

Just figuring out how he, they . . .

 _We're-_

. . . going to work through this.

Because they always did.

And they always would.

Because they had come too far . . .

 _Please, God, let me do this right._

. . . to do anything else.

But he was stopped in his tracks by a clearly distraught Emma.

Who seemed to have forgotten she was super pissed at him.

And he was a little more than confused.

"What?"

* * *

 **What a miserable situation, right?**

 **My poor sweeties.**

 **Well, thanks to my mystery guest and Lana Brown for so graciously reviewing!**


	78. Rat on a Wheel

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Rat on a Wheel

* * *

It couldn't be true.

It wasn't possible.

Norma might be a horrible, co-dependent, mentally unstable individual.

Manipulative. Conniving.

But she was his mom.

She had always been out there, somewhere in the world, doing whatever the hell it was she thought she was doing.

And protecting Norman.

And now, she wasn't doing any of it.

Dead.

She was dead.

She had been dead for two years.

Two whole years.

And nobody had bothered to tell him in all that time.

Including . . .

 _What the hell?_

. . . his own brother.

Emma's gentle hand was warm and comforting against his chest.

As he sat there and felt his emotions wave over him.

And he fought them, he fought them.

He fought so hard.

Because that was what he did.

Fight.

Always.

"I've got to call Norman."

* * *

"What the hell is going on down there, Norman?! Why didn't you tell me that Mom died?!"

His half brother's return voice was careful and precise, just like always.

"Well, I just didn't know how to reach you."

 _Bullshit, Norman. I called you. You had my number in your phone!_

 _And besides that, even if you or Mom erased it-_

"You could have figured it out."

" _You_ left, Dylan. _You_ changed your number. You said you didn't want to be contacted. I was just respecting your wishes."

 _I never said that! Is that what Norma told you?!_

Besides-

"I called after I left, Norman! I tried to reach out!"

 _I'm not crazy, stop making me think I'm crazy!_

"You said it be best if we didn't speak! How is that my fault?!"

 _What the hell is going on here?!_

"Why would you keep this from me?!"

 _She was my mother! I'm your brother!_

"Because it was too painful."

Norman's voice was even and light.

"It was too painful and I was shut down and I couldn't bear to tell you the horrible truth which was . . .

Norman paused and Dylan felt like a coil twisted up, ready to twang.

". . . she committed suicide."

"Bullshit!"

He knew, he absolutely _knew_ Norma Louise 'look at all my pain and misery' Bates would _never_ kill herself.

 _She was too stubborn to give up!_

"She wouldn't do that!"

 _She didn't know how to stop, had never known how to stop!_

 _If she stopped, if she gave up, then she would miss out on getting herself into shit she couldn't handle and then making sure everyone knew how unhappy she was!_

Norman's voice was calm and curt and so collected . . .

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way but that _is_ what happened."

. . . it made Dylan feel more frustrated, more furious than ever.

"Nonononono, I knew her and she would never do that!"

Something was going on, he was clearly pushing Norman past some invisible point Norman didn't want to step beyond.

Retorting now.

With just an aecerbic tinge of spite.

"Oh come on, Dylan. You never knew her _that_ well."

 _You little shit. She was my mom too._

"So take it from me. She had a darkness in her . . ."

 _Yeah, Caleb. And me._

 _And you._

". . . and she killed herself and died from carbon monoxide asphyxiation."

 _Bullshit_.

"In fact she even tried to kill both of us."

 _She would never try to kill her widdle Norman, you liar!_

 _I'm about to though!_

"It was even confirmed by the authorities."

 _Yeah, well, they were dumbassess too!_

"I don't understand, why would she do that, Norman?!"

None of it made any sense, none of it was possible in the universe.

And Norman was sounding increasingly petulant, like a kid being told he had to take his medicine.

"Well, I don't know why but I don't want to discuss it anymore, okay?"

 _I don't give a shit!_

"Well, I _do_ want to discuss it, okay?! Because she was _my_ mother too!"

 _None of this makes-_

". . . any sense!"

He was going around in circles in his head, spinning and spinning, while Norman stood still in the center of Dylan's hell of confusion.

"It was a horrible, horrible tragedy, Dylan! That is why tragedies don't make any sense! That is why they are so horrible!"

 _No, this is insane, Norman! Something is wrong and this is insane!_

"It never should have happened but it did and now she is gone!"

Norman was openly ranting now.

"What else is there to say?! Nothing! There is _nothing_ else to say!"

Sounding two steps away from throwing kitchenwares at Seattle.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore, I don't want to talk period!"

"So thank you for calling, Dylan, but goodbye."

A day then the little shit was gone.

Hung up.

Leaving Dylan . . .

 _What the f-_

. . . alone and lost.

And angry and confused and baffled.

He wanted to fling the phone against wall, smash it to bits.

Scream and yell and rage.

But he wasn't his family.

And he wasn't going to scare Emma like that.

Emma or Katie.

He was a better man than that.

He turned helplessly then, lost in his own life that suddenly wasn't his.

Phone hanging from his limp arm.

And saw her.

Emma.

His wife Emma.

Her face stricken and worried.

And all the fight went out of him.

His fingers lost strength and the phone clattered to noisily to the floor.

"Dylan?"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

But he heard it.

"You okay?"

He thought he shook his head.

"Norman's just . . . and Norma's . . . and I . . ."

He thought he was going to just pass out from being so lost in the world.

But he didn't.

Instead, he sank down slowly onto the footstool, eyes wide and blank.

Head hanging.

Emma came to him, knelt before him.

Wrapped her strong arms around him, rubbing his back.

Her head on his shoulder.

"It's okay, it's okay, Dylan. It's okay-"

But it wasn't.

It wasn't okay.

Norma was dead.

Dead for two years.

Everyone apparently believed she killed herself but-

"She didn't do it, Emma. She didn't kill herself. She couldn't. She wouldn't."

He knew it. He knew he wasn't crazy.

"Something's going on."

He could feel Emma's fingers kneed in through his hair, trying to comfort him.

But he knew what had to be done.

"I've got go down there and find out what's going on."

Emma's voice was quiet and quavering.

"I know."

He exhaled deeply, relieved she understood and it wouldn't be another fight between them.

"But you can't go tonight."

She wasn't requesting.

She was calmly and quietly _telling_.

"You're too upset and you'll have a wreck in the dark or something. Stay with me tonight. Stay with me and Katie. Go in the morning."

He swallowed hard, eyes filling with tears again.

"I love you, Em."

"I love you too, Dylan."

The he did as he was told.

He stayed with his wonderful wife.

He held his baby girl, kissed her when she cried.

He fed her her bottle, changed her diaper.

He slept off and on, restless and fitful.

* * *

Until the morning when he called his boss, stating family emergency, ' _no, Emma and Katie are fine-'_

"Didn't know you had any other blood family, Dylan."

"Yeah, we've been, uh, estranged."

"Okay, well, keep me updated."

"I will, thanks."

Then he packed a bag, took one longing look at his napping . . .

 _Yeah, couple of hours of consciousness knocks me on my ass sometimes too._

. . . daughter.

And hugged Emma.

"Be careful," she murmured. "We need you."

He squeezed her tight, afraid to leave.

But refusing to ask her . . .

 _She and Katie don't need to be involved in this._

. . . to come.

Then he walked to the truck.

And Emma followed him.

And clung to him a few more minutes . . .

"Call me when you get there, okay?"

"I will. I'm driving straight through."

"Well, stop to pee, Massett."

Her eyes were bright with tears even as she smiled brave and beautiful for him.

And he found the strength to smile back.

"I love you, Emma."

"I love you, Dylan."

She stood in the driveway, slender and vulnerable and his woman warrior.

Watching as he drove away.

And he hoped he would come back.

* * *

 **Honestly though, i couldn't believe Norman thought Dylan would actually buy that Norma killed herself AND him.**

 ***facepalm***


	79. Home Again

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Home Again

* * *

Dylan Massett turned off the engine and sat and looked at the house.

He was terrified of it.

He sat and he looked at it and wished he was somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

Anywhere else with Emma and Katie.

Or at least near Emma and Katie.

But he was determined.

He was set.

He was going to figure this shit out.

Norma's car pulled in next to him, his younger brother at the wheel.

And they locked eyes.

 _I'm here, Norman. You can't run away or hang up the phone now._

 _You're not getting away from me._

He unlatched the driver's door.

And paused.

 _I'm here at the motel. Norman's here. I'll call when I can._

Her reply came back almost immediately.

As if she had been timing his drive, keeping her phone close as she played with Emma.

 _Okay. Be safe. I love you._

 _Love you._

Then he got out of the car.

* * *

Norman looked irritated.

And strangely guilty. As if he'd been caught.

 _What'd I catch you doing, little brother?_

"Hello, Dylan."

"Hey, Norman."

And then, without spoken consent, they walked in silence up to the house.

Everything looked exactly the same, maybe a little worse for wear.

But otherwise . . .

"I'll make us something to eat."

 _I could not be less hungry._

But he followed him anyway.

He was getting the creeps.

It looked exactly the same.

It smelled exactly the same.

As if time had frozen while he had been gone.

Her shoes, her heels, were even still in the living room . . .

 _"Parlor, Dylan it's called a parlor. Jeez, don't you have any refinement at all?"_

 _"Guess not, Norma."_

 _"Don't call me 'Norma'."_

 _"Sorry. Norma."_

. . . as if she had just kicked them off to rub her feet a little right before he had walked . . .

 _You sure she's not here, Norman?_

 _Am I being punk'd?_

There were cigarettes and a lighter on the piano though and he never . . .

 _"That's disgusting, Dylan. It kills your lungs and it makes you stink."_

 _"Yeah, but it gives me a great singing voice."_

So that was weird.

. . . into the house.

The kitchen was dirty and cluttered. Dishes piled in the sink.

 _"Ugh, dishwashers. They don't clean right."_

 _"You could just eat off paper plates."_

 _"Like a homeless hobo? I don't think so."_

Discarded eatery stacked on the counters.

And the smell was vaguely . . . not pleasant.

A clear indicator that Norma Bates . . .

"You've been living here alone all this time?"

. . . wasn't home anymore.

"Yeah, I get by."

Living alone at twenty-two was okay.

Dingy one bedroom apartment. Mattress on the floor.

Tiny bath. Mildewed towels wadded up on the rod.

Minuscule kitchen with half a burner and an ancient stove with temperature knobs missing.

Garbage can brimming with empty Taco Bell bags.

That was normal. Not ideal. But normal.

Living alone in this musty masoleum of someone else's crap was awful.

 _Oh god._

"Norman, you should've called me. You shouldn't be living by yourself."

Wilted flowers. Smudgy windows.

Norman hiding in his sandwich-making.

Glancing over his shoulder to Dylan from time to time.

 _This is bad._

 _This place is bad._

No, 'bachelor pad, hey, look at me, I do what I want' bad.

But like lost little boy with a dead mother bad.

"It's okay. The motel's still running."

 _How? It's a piece of crap. It was always a piece of crap._

". . . Emma?"

 _The light of my life._

 _The light of all life._

"She's good. We got married."

 _Why does this sound like ashes here?_

"We have a baby."

 _Why does it sound like a lie?_

Babies, helpless little babies, have the power to break down the world.

Almost any barrier at all.

"You have a baby?"

Even the Fortress of Solitude that was Norman Bates' severe withdrawn social awkwardness.

And Dylan found himself reaching out . . .

"Yeah, a little girl. Katie."

. . . opening his phone, finding a good picture.

 _They're all good pictures._

Norman holding the phone, gazing at Dylan and Emma's miracle baby.

Murmuring . . .

"A girl."

. . . to himself.

And looking up again, eyes bright with tears.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't call you."

And suddenly he looked so sick and tired, Dylan felt a wave of forgiveness and concern for his baby brother wash over him.

"I'm so sorry I haven't seen you for so long. It's just . . ."

So forlorn.

"Everyday is a small century."

And Dylan felt like he was finally getting through to him.

Getting somewhere, breaking through that hard, protective armour shell.

Simply by being there and listening and caring.

Just like Emma had taught him to d-

And then Norman's eyes glazed over.

As he gazed over Dylan's shoulder.

And drew away once more, face pulling in, shoulders tensing again.

And Dylan felt . . .

 _What-_

. . . a wave of trepidation skitter over him.

Trying not to lose the ground they had gained.

"Are you still seeing your doctor?"

Calm and casual inquiry.

No, of course Norman wasn't.

He had only ever gone to placate Norma.

And with her absent helicoptering, he didn't even . . .

"I really don't think I need them."

 _Mentally ill people never think they need them._

. . . take his meds.

And there he was, Norman, doing it again.

Looking over Dylan's shoulder.

At the empty hall beyond.

With a quietly reserved face of fear.

 _What?_

Then he edged closer and Dylan felt something bad surreshing through his brain.

Which only got worse as Norman spoke.

"The only thing is, I do sometimes miss _our_ mother."

 _Our mother?_

Norman's gaze was unsettling in its intensity.

As if he were silently trying to communicate something it was unsafe to put into words.

"So very much, Dylan, I can even tell you."

"It's just not the same."

All these statements seemed obvious.

Of _course_ , Norman would miss the mother he and Norman both shared.

Of _course_ it wouldn't be the same.

So why we're those statements causing Dylan's marrow to chill?

As if the meanings were deeper.

As if Norman were trying to communicate something, something very important that it was imperative that Dylan grasp.

"And it never will be."

And Dylan Massett could see that his little brother.

Was scared.

 _Of what, Norman? What are you so afraid of?_

But he couldn't figure it out, as much as he tried.

But he was . . .

"I don't think you're well, Norman."

. . . afraid.

Of him. And for him.

"And I don't think you should be living here alone."

Not his home. Not Seattle.

Not _too_ close to Emma and Katie.

But somewhere other than this godawful, still, rotten masoleum of a cloyingly haunted house.

Norman stayed taunt and intense.

"Well, living anywhere else, any other way is not an option."

 _Okay not really a surprising statement. But why?_

Dylan hadn't exactly expected Norman to joyfully go skipping back to Pineview.

 _Okay, meet him on his own ground._

"Look, I'm going to stay with you for a couple of days. And we're going to get this all figured out."

 _And I'm going to need to buy a lot more antacid._

Because Norman was staring back over Dylan's shoulder again.

And it was scaring him, freaking him out.

And then shunting away . . .

". . . lie down."

. . . off upstairs.

Leaving Dylan .. .

. . . to his own devices.

* * *

 **The way Dylan just immediately chooses to help Norman breaks my heart. It's so self sacrificial, God bless him.**


	80. Forgive Me, Norma

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Forgive Me, Norma

* * *

Whether or not Norma Louise Bates had really killed herself or not, she was dead and buried.

Moldering away in the ground.

She would never come back.

He would never see her again.

Hear her voice. See her face.

She was out of this physical world forever.

 _So why do I feel like she's watching me here?_

Dylan Massett had a major case of the creeps.

Norman had wandered off to lay down, like a ninety year old grandma or something instead of a twenty year old young man.

Leaving Dylan was alone.

He wandered the reminder of the house, leaving the neglected kitchen . . .

"Hey, Dylan, want some toast?"

"Yeah, sure, thanks."

"No problem."

. . . behind.

And the laundry room.

"Dylan, I washed your shirt for you. Here."

"Oh. Thanks, Norma. You didn't have to do that."

"Don't be silly, I don't mind."

The dining room.

"Smells great!"

". . . Marsala. I thought we could eat dinner here tonight. Make it special."

"Oh, okay."

And eventually . . .

 _I do not want to do this._

. . . slowly up the stairs.

Across the landing.

Hand skimming the smooth wood railing.

Past Norman's closed door.

Every quiet footfall heavy as lead.

Being pulled along by an invisible string.

 _Norma? Mom? You in there?_

To Norma's room.

Crossing over the threshold.

And she was here.

Norma Louise Bates.

Every square inch of the cool, still air was permeated with her.

Her knickknacks.

Her beauty supplies.

Her pictures in frames.

Her robe.

Everything was exactly the way she would have left it had she simply stepped out for the day.

He half expected her to appear in the doorway . . .

"Hey, Dylan. What are you doing, honey?"

. . . all smiles and lingering subconscious suspicion.

But she wasn't there.

She was gone.

And she would never be there again.

What assailed Dylan then were not the many, _many_ times the two of them fought and argued and railed at each other.

The times she had pushed him aside for Norman.

The times she had blamed him for things he had never understood until Caldbeck appeared out of the blue.

What assailed him as stood there in the dusty, dim light of Norma Louise Bates' sanctuary were the good memories.

"I'll stay with him."

Her comforting mom hands running through his hair, gentle and sweet because he was offering to watch over Norman.

"Thank you, Dylan. I don't know what I'd do without you. I feel so alone I all this."

The times when she was almost a mother.

"You don't understand what it means to me to have a family finally."

Gentle hug, so gentle in her soft bathrobe.

"Oh, Dylan."

The best she could be for him.

". . . tree we talked about. Would you come over? Please?"

"Yeah, okay, we'll figure something out."

"Great!"

They washed over them, those memories.

"People are generally disappointing, honey. You can't let it kill you."

Casually offering life advice over coffee and Caleb's gifted guitar.

"Yeah, okay."

They enveloped him, saturated him.

"Dylan, thank you for finding Norman. It means so much to me."

"Yeah, sure."

Sent him reeling.

"Why don't you stop by before you leave for Seattle?"

"Okay."

Every sound, every smell, every taste on his tongue.

". . . good, thanks, Norma. Mom."

Happy smile at being called Mom.

"Well, I'm glad you like it."

Every simple sensation, every nuance of every syllable of every word.

"You're a miracle and I wouldn't give you up for anything."

He was overcome, overwhelmed.

And he lost his composure, sinking down onto the aged Oriental rug at the foot of her bed.

And fell completely apart.

Crying, weeping, for the mother she had attempted to be.

The woman she had strove to become.

Now dead and gone.

Forever.

He had deadened his heart and his mind to her, pretending to move on and let her go to her own fate.

And now, she had.

And Dylan Massett cried.

 _I tried so hard._

 _I thought I did all I could._

 _But I didn't. I abandoned her._

 _I abandoned her and left her alone and now she's dead._

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Norma."

 _What else could I have done to save you from this?_

"Please forgive me."

He sat on the floor at the foot of his dead mother's bed and cried alone for a long time.

* * *

When he was sufficiently cleaned out and numb, Dylan got up off the floor and left the room with one last longing look at her robe, bathed in the aura of lightly curtained sunlight.

He washed his face in the bathroom.

The past echoing even in this tiled washed room.

"I don't want anything to happen to you, Norma!"

"I know, Dylan. It'll be fine."

Returned downstairs.

Left a note for Norman.

 _Gone to pharmacy. Back soon. -Dylan_

And left the house of the dead.

He drove into the village, blindly staring past all the familiar places he had lived for nearly three years, the longest span of time he had ever lived anywhere in recent memory.

Parked the truck in front of the pharmacy.

And went in.

"Hello. May I help you?"

"I hope so."

* * *

". . . couldn't speak to him."

 _No, don't tell me._

". . . missing just over a year ago. Apparently he's presumed dead."

 _A year ago? But-_

". . . he saw him a few days ago."

 _Dammit, Norman, did you do something to him too?_

"But that's why he needs the meds."

 _I've got to stop this. Please help me._

". . . soon, then something very bad will happen."

 _Again._

* * *

He texted Emma again, eager to make contact.

Unable to call.

For fear . . .

 _Norman's in bad shape. I'm going to stay here for a couple of days to help him._

. . . of breaking down from the sound of her voice alone.

 _Okay. Do you think it's safe?_

Staying a few days, get him on his meds, figure out how to get him back into Pineview or something.

 _Yeah, I think so. How's Katie?_

 _Fine. We miss you. Are you okay?_

 _Yeah, I'm a little freaked out but I'm fine._

Then go back home.

Kiss his baby girl. Work things out with his wife.

 _Please be careful, Dylan._

 _I will. Hug Katie for me._

 _I will. I love you._

 _I love you._

* * *

 **Thanks to everyone who's been reading!**


	81. Mom?

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Mom?

* * *

 _Norma?_

It wasn't, but just for a second, in the headlights of the truck, he could swear Norma, or even a younger version of her, was slowly climbing the steps to the gothic house of death on the hill.

 _No no no no-_

He fairly leapt out of the truck to stop her.

"May I help you?!"

She turned and Dylan saw that she was young.

His age young.

 _Norman's_ age young.

And pretty.

Blonde pretty.

 _Norma_ pretty.

"Hi."

And she had been crying.

Vulnerable and pretty.

Norma all over.

"Hi. Who are you?"

She was even dressed in a classic way. Like Norma would have appreciated.

"I'm Madeline. I'm a friend of Norman's."

 _Oh god, no, you're not._

"I'm just going to see Norman."

 _Oh god, no, you're_ not _._

He didn't even care Norman had been pretending he never existed.

He just cared that this woman soon might never have existed.

Like her husband.

 _Oh god, Norman what did you do?_

". . . safe place . . ."

 _Not here._

". . . control his environment . . ."

 _And you are definitely not part of controlling his environment._

 _Shudder._

And then he got her 'missing' husband's name and sent her away as fast as he could.

Probably scaring her a little in the process.

But at sending her away unhurt.

Unharmed.

 _Un, well, dead._

And then . . .

 _Alright, dammit, we've got to sort this shit out, Norman._

. . . Dylan Massett went up the steps himself.

And went home.

* * *

He was wiped out on the floor and his head was beyond throbbing.

 _Shit, my head, Norman, what the hell?_

He felt like he had been so close to getting through to him, getting him to take his meds.

Just once.

Get him on the path to getting a little clearer.

He had tried to talk to Norman about Sam Loomis disappearing, tried to get him to tell the truth.

". . . don't know what happened to him."

 _Bullshit. You killed him, didn't you?_

Norman had again insisted he was telling the truth, insisted he was fine.

And insisted . . .

". . . me be."

. . . that Dylan leave.

 _No. That's not happening._

Norman had been agitated, really agitated.

Crying and gasping for breath like he was about to collapse or freak out or something.

But still in control, Dylan thought. Barely.

 _Maybe._

He had switched seats, coming closer.

Sitting next to his baby brother. Speaking calm and quiet . . .

"I just really want to help you get better. You need to trust me, please."

. . . and so very sincere and earnest.

Trying to make that connection of care.

"You're my brother and I love you."

Putting himself out there for him, being really, really real.

Bringing out the few pills he had convinced the pharmacist to sell him.

"Please just take one in front of me so I know you're taking it."

He figured he'd convince him to take the meds.

And then get him somewhere safe before he hurt anybody else.

Talking to him, quite and calm.

And yes, urgent.

Trying to get through to him before he snapped and shattered into a million pieces.

Norman, like though his brother had asked him to imibe deadly poison, asked him to die.

Every movement severely efforted, like his limbs were weighted with lodestones.

But slowly, like monkey evolution slow, taking a pill.

Standing, trudging to the sink to fill the cup with water.

 _Okay, okay, he's taking the first step, okay._

But then-

"Please stay out of this, Mother."

"I just want to talk to him, Norman."

-it had happened again.

He had turned.

And Norman, not really being a macho kinda guy to begin with, had shifted.

Changed.

His voice. His movements.

 _Oh Jesus._

"Dylan, I know you mean well."

Replaced by . . .

 _. . . Mom?_

"Because you have _always_ meant well."

It chilled Dylan.

"And you may not believe me, but I am . . ."

Froze him more than anything else he had experienced with Norman.

So far.

". . . so proud of you."

Weird as it seemed, terrified as he was, he could almost imagine Norma was standing there.

Finally, for no reason at all, no motive behind it, telling him things he'd always wished to hear.

"I love you."

Truthful. Sincere.

Real.

"But unfortunately, I can only ever be a real mother to just one person."

And stupidly, even though it was Norman being Norma and not really Norma, that statement sliced him to the core just as if she'd actually said it herself.

Because she must have showed that feeling, that decision throughout his childhood and life even more so than he had thought.

Otherwise, Norman's perception of the her that he was showing now, wouldn't have thought to say it.

"And so, even though I love you so very, very much, and this pains me . . ."

 _Norma, I mean, Norman-_

". . . you are getting in the way."

And then the little bastard bashed him in the side of the head with the water glass.

 _Oh f-_

The pain was intense and blinding.

But he could see, in and out, Norman grabbing a knife-

 _Oh f-_

-stabbing downward-

 _No-_

-a second before stopping like he'd hit an invisible wall-

 _Is it the Force?_

-then Norman struggling with himself, falling back over the table, climbing up on it, flailing weirdly about-

- _the hell-._

There was blood on Dylan's hand, his head cut open bad.

Vision waving in and out.

But he could still see Norman finally scrambling off the table, staggering to the phone.

And he could definitely still hear him.

". . . Norman Bates. I killed Sam Loomis."

 _The hell?!_

* * *

 **Yep, I didn't see it coming either!**


	82. Bad to Worse

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Bad to Worse

* * *

Confessed to murder.

The little shit had called the cops and confessed to murder.

Dylan had been planning to help him get back into Pineview or somewhere psychiatric that could help him.

 _He isn't a bad person, he's just crazy._

But now he had gone with the sheriff and god knew what he was telling her.

Dylan was left with a busted, throbbing head.

And a whole new list of problems.

He had been planning to stay at the house with Norman while they worked out what to do.

He would have been willing to manage the Haunted House of Bates as much as he needed in the dark hours of the night for his brother.

But now, with Norman in jail, there was no way in hell he was going to set foot there for more than a few minutes in the broad daylight hours when he absolutely needed to.

 _It's haunted or something._

 _Steals your soul._

 _Like Silent Hill or something._

 _It messes with your head._

So that was out.

Firstly . . .

"Hi. I'd like a room please."

"Holy hell, what happened to you?"

. . . getting a room at the King's Motel . . .

"Bad night."

"I'd say so. Want some Tylenol?"

"Yeah, that be great."

. . . at one in the morning, looking like a bad bar fight.

* * *

He'd showered, brushed his teeth, and fallen . . .

 _I feel like I'm forgetting something._

. . . into bed without texting Emma.

It was lonely there in that motel

His phone buzzed on the floor at seven, causing him to her awake . . .

 _Ahhh-_

. . . pulling at his stitches.

And refreshening his near migraine.

 _Are you okay? What's happening?_

 _Yeah. I'm good. Call you soon._

 _Okay. Love you._

 _Love you._

* * *

But he hadn't called her.

He had called Remo's lawyer person instead.

Met with her.

". . . not a bad guy, just crazy."

And hoped she could help him.

Norman wouldn't make it in prison.

He would be a target, a small, weak, effeminate target.

He would be killed or even worse.

He needed to be . . .

". . . in a mental facility."

And he hoped Remo's calculating, shrewd lawyer person could get Norman into one.

Instead of dead in jail.

* * *

"Dylan?"

Despite all his lingering water glass to the temple migraine, his wife's voice, the one normal thing left in his life, soothed his nerves more than any migraine medicine he could take.

"Yeah, Emma. Where are you?"

She was out on a walk in the cold with Katie.

And Dylan just wished he could be there instead of his current location.

 _Oh god, I love you, Emma._

"I miss you guys."

 _You just don't even know._

He told her where he was, about Norman confessing to murder.

And he told her . . .

"I just think he's really sick."

. . . about his worries about his brother.

About getting a lawyer.

Her voice was calming and supportive and . . .

"Dylan, I'm worried about you."

. . . concerned.

Concerned because she loved him.

 _She loves me. She still loves me._

And that helped a little.

He could feel the pain riding up in his chest, wanting him to feel the relief that Emma still cared, that he wasn't alone in the world yet.

That he was still a part of something good when this was over.

But . . .

"Don't be. I'm fine."

. . . he couldn't let it."

If he started crying over the phone, it would scare her.

No telling what she would do.

So he . . .

"Look, I gotta go."

. . . got off the phone quick before he could start feeling again . . .

"Give Katie a kiss for me, okay?"

. . . and scare the woman he loved.

"Alright, love you."

* * *

So Emma's mother was dead and Dylan was completely sure Norman had killed her.

Which meant he was going to have to tell his wife.

Because he sure as hell wasn't going to let her hear it from anybody else.

Which also meant there was a better than good chance she was going to freak right out.

And probably take herself and Katie.

And leave him.

And there was no way in hell he would be able to avoid it.

 _Shit._

A part of him hated Norman.

Hated Audrey.

Hated the dental records.

And hated of course hated the damn sheriff.

Who didn't really care about him or his brother or even the dead bodies in the lake.

But was, especially at the moment, just trying to do her job.

Really, really well.

 _Well, you can go to hell for all I care, Sheriff._

And then he went back inside his tiny little, Emma and Katie-less room.

And shut the door in her face.

* * *

He had trouble falling asleep.

The bed was too still.

One of the many things he adored about Emma was her sleeping idiosyncrasies.

Not only did she like to sleep with one hand tucked under her head in the most adorable way, she also went to sleep perfectly.

Emma rubbed her feet together while going to sleep.

One sole of one foot rubbing the top of the other.

A small movement that comforted him for some reason.

 _Em, I miss you._

* * *

That night he dreamed about Emma and Katie.

He dreamed they were walking in a snow covered field.

One of those you see in pictures.

Walking, just walking, not feeling the cold.

Each of them bundled up and warm.

Katie in his arms, her little baby skin so soft, blue eyes so wide and bright.

Emma was telling a story and laughing and it was the funniest, best, story he had ever heard.

Their breath billowing out into the cloudless blue winter sky, intermingling together because everything about them was together.

Dylan Massett had never felt so good, so free.

So happy.

And suddenly Emma turned.

Katie was no longer in his arms, she was in Emma's.

And Emma was no longer laughing, she was crying.

"Why did you do it, Dylan? Why did you let him kill my mother? This is all _your_ fault and I will _never_ forgive you for it!"

Then she turned and started walking away with Katie in her arms.

Not looking good back, even when he shouted her name.

"Emma, I'm sorry! Emma, wait! Emma, wait! Emma, please come back!"

Because he couldn't run to her side.

He couldn't run at all.

Something was pulling him back, skidding his heels along the snow covered ground.

Something was pulling him back as Emma and Katie were walking forward.

And he didn't want to . . .

"Wait, please, I'm sorry!"

. . . be separated from them.

Be without them.

The further they walked from him and he was pulled back from them, the colder he got.

Just a little at first.

But more and more until he was shiveringly empty.

Left alone in the freezing cold.

Dark fast gathering around him.

Alone.

And lost.

And so afriad.

"Emma!"

* * *

Dylan Massett awoke with a start in his rented motel bed, bathed in sweat, heart racing so fast he thought for a second it might burst.

He was not in Seattle with his precious family.

Hearing Katie cry or cuddling up with Emm or thinking about the new West Ambry account.

He was alone and lost in White Pine Bay, Oregon.

And he was scared.

Shaking, he flung back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing his head in his hands.

 _I want to go home._

 _I want all of this to go away and I want to go home._

But he couldn't.

He had responsibilities.

He had his brother to look after.

And he had to pee.

So he got up.

Took off his sweatsoaked clothes.

Emptied his bladder.

And took a shower.

He probably used up all the hot water in the entire motel, pressing his head to his arm against the aging wall of the shower.

Letting the water best down on his head.

Run down his neck.

Over the star tattoo, his first . . .

 _Guide me. Help me make good decisions. Help me be better._

. . . shoddily thoughtout ink.

Way back when he had first decided to be . . .

 _Let me be okay._

. . . better than he had started out.

Down his back, soaking into the tense, wound-up muscles bunched up under his skin.

Water running off into the tub, sluicing away the slick, sick sweat he had been sheened with when he had awoken from his nightmare.

 _What do I do? I don't know how to do this! How do I do this?_

He eventually roused himself from his stupor.

Washed with soap . . .

 _This doesn't smell or feel like the one at home._

 _This sucks._

. . . rinsed.

Washed his hair.

Rinsed.

And turned off the water.

He felt a little better, not much.

He still had miles to go.

 _Hey, Will, rubbing off on me, huh?_

And so he got to it.

As best he could.

* * *

 **Only a little of this chapter is about Dylan in the shower, okay? ;)**


	83. For Anything

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

For Anything

* * *

He hadn't been expecting her, hadn't asked her to come.

Didn't recognize her driving a rental car.

Five hours away, she must have gotten up before four.

So when he saw her stomping over the snow toward him, deep purple coat, stylishly torn jeans, clunky boats, blue colorful scarf, hair twisted up in a knot, her new style, face worried and pinched, probably at the sight of his water glass bashed face, he thought _he_ was the one having the hallucinations now.

 _Oh shit, Emma, you shouldn't be here, why are you here-_

"Dylan, what happened?!"

 _Oh, you're really here, I'm so glad you're here-_

And his carefully honed reserve cracked a little and he grabbed her and hugged her, clinging to her as he had never done before.

 _Oh Jesus, you're going to hate me but I'm just so glad you're here-_

Feeling her surprise, her hugging him back.

Speaking words he desperately wanted to hear.

But was afraid of all the same.

"Katie's with my dad. I'm with you. We'll figure it out. I wanted to be here, help you with this."

Compounded by an instant feeling of loss.

 _You're going to hate me now cause I can't lie through this-_

As he forced himself to let her go.

Suddenly on the verge of tears, knowing what he was about to say . . .

"Emma, I don't know how to tell you this."

. . . would tear her apart.

 _But no more lies, right, oh god-_

But if he waited, if he paused, even for more than a second, he wouldn't tell her at all.

And if he had a chance at all of keeping his wife and daughter, he had to be completely and absolutely honest.

Forever.

Especially about this.

"They found your mom's body up in Falls Lake."

She looked at him in shock. Incredulous.

As if she could never quite believe anything had really ever happened to her mom.

"She was murdered. I know it was Norman."

And she did break little then, stumbling, groping for him for safety.

As if on the edge of a faint.

But tough Emma didn't.

She wavered.

Let him go, walking back a little and stopping again as if lost.

Staring at him as she processed the horror of it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

* * *

"I can just live in denial."

She had said that once.

At the cabin, when he came to find her to make her go get new lungs and not die.

Denial.

A comforting turning away from the truth, from the real world, from harsh, cold reality.

Reality that she now faced . . .

". . . dead. I'm sorry."

. . . and could not turn away from.

Norman had killed Audrey who was dead and gone forever.

Just like Norma.

And Emma . . .

"This is all so surreal."

. . . was very not okay.

He had convinced her to come back into the motel room, take off her jacket.

Sit down on the couch.

He sat on the edge of the bed across from her, thinking she probably wouldn't want him to touch her just then.

And he had told her everything that had happened since his arrival back here in the ninth circle of Hell.

About Norman's weirdness.

The pharmacist saying the doctor had gone missing.

Norman turning into Norma and braining him with the water glass.

His confession.

The lawyer.

And sheriff's damn dental records.

Emma sat frozen and aghast as the entire horrible story came tumbling out of him.

She sat there, face twisted and pale.

Then she started talking, voice empty with shock.

". . . isn't real . . . isn't happening . . ."

He felt bonded to her in the insanity of it all.

"I'm so sorry, Emma. I never wanted to bring you anything but happiness."

And Emma, being the Decoy she had been raised to be, once more put the blame on the person who rightfully had earned it.

". . . not your fault . . . didn't bring Norman into my life."

She blinked heavily as if sleepy and weighted down.

"He was so sweet when I met him."

 _Already killed Sam though. But yeah._

". . . sweet. Just out of his mind."

Emma's face hardened as she looked over at him.

"Doesn't make it better for me."

The idea that she had spent time with, been infatuated with, made out with a complete psycho must be humiliating for her.

And for him to know all that probably made her feel like a miserable fool.

 _Oh, and Norman killed her mom._

 _Oh and I helped Norma cover it up._

And Dylan waited for emotions to process and rise.

Waiting for her to-

"I need to go home."

\- leave him.

Disappointment wasn't the word to describe Dylan's Massett's surge of emotion.

He was devastated.

"Please, Emma, please," he begged weakly.

 _"Don't pressure me, for anything."_

Rising to his feet, reaching out for her, his wife, his rock.

". . . please don't go, stay with me, please, don't go . . ."

Desperate for her not to evaporate, leave him alone.

Even though he deserved it.

 _Stay, please, stay, oh god don't go-_

Holding her gently in his arms-

 _"Don't pressure me. For anything."_

-desperate to feel her warmth and love.

 _-please, Emma, please-_

"I'll stay and take care of my mother's body."

While he still . . .

"But I don't know if we're going to make it through this, Dylan."

. . . could.

 _Please, Emma, please, no, please-_

 _"Don't pressure me for anything."_

"I understand."

* * *

His family around him would help.

Give him strength to face this.

Figure it out.

Regain focus.

See the hope.

But Emma was in fullout mother tiger mode.

Effectively shutting him out of any and all decision making processes involving . . .

"My daughter."

 _Our daughter, Emma . She's my daughter too, right? You've always said 'our'._

And she always had been.

Up until now.

". . . help if Will brought her up here."

Emma's gaze nailed him to the wall even as her voice stayed quiet.

"Who would it help? Me? You?"

 _Yes. Yes._

"I'm not going to bring her up here just so we can feel a little bit better about Norman murdering my mother."

Skewering him with the truth. In a low, barely hysterical tone.

And Dylan completely cowed, waved the white flag, rubbing his neck and op lowering his head in defeat.

"Okay, I got it."

And up until now they had always talked things out.

Calmly.

Quietly.

Reasonably.

Together.

Looking at each other.

Talking.

Considering.

Diplomatic. Mature.

Very unBates/Massett-like.

But now . . .

"Look, there's no other way to say it, Dylan! It is what it is!"

Everything was topsy turvy.

And he felt lost, spun around, driven under.

"I know."

Like he had . . .

 _Shit._

. . . before he had met Emma.

Emma.

His wife.

Here before him now.

Right there.

Yet could not be reached.

And he was very, very scared.

 _Emma, I need you._

 _Please don't turn away. Please don't . . ._

 _"Don't pressure me. For anything."_

 _. . . leave me alone._

* * *

 **Dylan's desperation just made me almost cry here, gosh.**


	84. Monster

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

 **Monster**

* * *

Norman's lawyer Dylan was spending his own hard earned money on definitely did not help their spiraling situation.

". . . update on Norman."

 _Oh jeez, no, not now-_

". . . want an update on Norman . . . things going on right now . . . not at the top of the list."

Julia Ramos seemed unsympathetic.

"Well, he should be."

Dylan tried to be diplomatic.

". . . okay if I step outside and talk to her for five minutes?"

Trying to be careful, so very careful with Emma.

But Emma . . .

"About what? His _defense_?"

. . . was calling them both on every bit of bullshit she could smell on them.

"He's _guilty_ in case you were under any illusions!"

Julia tried to be sympathetic.

". . . sorry . . ."

But couldn't touch Emma.

". . . brother-in-law ever killed your mother?!"

 _"Allegedly."_

And Emma was done with them both.

She turned and walked into the bathroom, the only place neither of them were, slamming the door as she went.

As if she could no longer stand the sight of either of them any . . .

 _Shit_.

. . . more.

* * *

She wanted him to sit for Norman.

Julia Ramos.

His lawyer.

Show the world his human side.

 _I'm his brother._

 _He's not a bad guy._

 _Just crazy._

Capital offense.

Death penalty.

Or, innocent by reason of insanity.

Life in psychiatric care.

 _That's what I wanted for him._

 _So why do I feel so defeated?_

And Dylan Massett did not know what to do.

* * *

". . . to go make the funeral arrangements."

But he did know.

"I'll go with you."

"No. I just want to be on my own."

That whatever he chose to do . . .

""Are you going to the hearing?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

 _Guide me, Emma . Help me please._

"I can't tell you what to do about your family, Dylan."

That he would be doing it alone.

Because Emma was on her own path.

And definitely _not_ inviting him along.

Her eyes, her entire countenance, was flat and withdrawn.

They always hugged goodbye. Kissed. If only a peck.

He needed her now more than ever before.

But she was gone away from him, her love and devotion and loyalty and steadfastness a ghost of a memory for him.

And she left then.

Without a touch.

Without a peck.

Without an inkling of familiarity between them.

Left him alone in that motel room.

Breakfast uneaten, coffee cooling.

And he could not . . .

 _"Don't pressure me. For anything."_

. . . stop her.

* * *

He was going to be sick.

He was going to throw up all over the rubberneckers and gawkers and concerned townsfolk and people with missing family members . . .

 _Hello, Madeline. You still look like Norma and you're freaking me out._

. . . who were surrounding him, listening to the judge lay out the parameters for Norman's hearing.

He hadn't gone and sat behind him.

He was there, but he just couldn't do it.

In fact, he didn't even know anymore how much further he was willing to go for the murdering little psychotic.

Who was his half brother.

 _Shit._

* * *

The murders were brutal, carried out with passion and a violence so complete, they could no longer be swept under the rug.

The sick feeling was getting stronger as Sheriff Green described in detail, the ways in which the victims had died and left their bodies on earth.

And Dylan . . .

 _Oh god, Norman, what have you done?_

 _What have I done?_

. . . had to go.

He rose suddenly, trajecting himself in the direction of the door.

Trying not to step on toes as he . . .

 _Let me out of here._

. . . stumbled past.

* * *

He didn't throw up, not quite.

But he did hunch over the toilet bowl . . .

 _I do not want to know whose ass has been here._

. . . fighting the sour bile . . .

 _Why why why . . ._

. . . rising in his mouth.

And finally, when he thought he had control of himself, he stood shakily.

Flushed the empty toilet out of habit.

And exited the stall, pale but composed.

He washed his hands.

 _What have I done?_

Dried them.

 _And what do I do now?_

And gazed up blindly at the stranger in the mirror.

 _What are you?_

Trying to find the courage to leave the public restroom.

 _I didn't_ mean _to become a monster._

He reached and dug his phone out of his back pocket.

Opened the homescreen on his phone.

Thumb hovering over the photo app.

 _I don't deserve to look at them._

 _Not after what I've done._

He stood, frozen.

Yearning.

Sick.

Remorseful.

And wishing he could take so much back.

Have made different decisions.

But he couldn't.

It was impossible.

It was also impossible to stay in the men's restroom of the courthouse forever.

So Dylan Massett, brother of _alleged_ murderer took a deep breath.

Pocketed his phone.

And left the restroom.

* * *

Sam Loomis' pretty, blond, Norma-esque widow was there.

As if fate needed to punch him in the balls some more.

And Dylan Massett stepped up to meet it.

'Cause, as the damaged flesh on his lower left torso proved, he didn't run from shit.

Except with Emma to Seattle.

Dylan faced fate.

And punch him in the balls it did.

". . . me for a few weeks. How did he trick you for your _whole_ life?"

Her disgust and hate and misery and lost demanded a reply.

And he couldn't think of an acceptable one.

Then her face cleared with terrible understanding.

"He didn't. You knew. He was your brother. You _knew_."

 _No, I wasn't sure, I . . ._

 _Yeah. I knew._

"How can you _live_ with yourself?"

He realized he didn't know.

Because now he had become the monster.

* * *

 **No, I do not think Dylan is a monster. But I think he does.**


	85. Dry Drowning

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Dry Drowning

* * *

Emma was late.

So late he was beginning to worry she had gone straight from taking care of her mom's remains back to Seattle without bothering to tell him.

Except her suitcase was still in the room.

Still packed with her clothes that smelled like her.

Her toiletries.

And her all-important immunosuppressants.

So she hadn't left.

And Dylan worried.

She might have gotten somehow lost or in trouble.

Put too much stress in her lungs and had some sort of medical emergency all alone.

He tried to rest, just lay there because he could bear anymore of the world at that point.

Thinking about Emma and Katie.

Norma and Norman.

Crying off and on, silently because he wasn't supposed to cry out loud.

Eventually hearing the key turn in the lock, Emma opening the door . . .

 _You're okay, you're alright, of course you are._

Speaking calmly to her because she was probably burned out too at this point.

"Hey, I was worried."

 _I was worried you had left me._

But she hadn't, not yet.

But she had been taking care of her mom and probably wouldn't appreciate . . .

" _Don't pressure me. For anything."_

. . . being interrogated about her whereabouts since.

Felt like light weight as she sat on the bed to take off her coat and her boots.

Unwrap her scarf.

And climb into bed fully clothed next to him.

Dylan automatically turned to their most familiar, his favorite, position.

Him on his back, Emma tucked into his side, her head on his shoulder.

Delicate fingers absently playing with his shirt.

His arm around her.

Hand absently caressing her shoulder.

Chin atop her head.

This was where _they_ were _supposed_ to be.

But . . .

"I'm going home tomrrow. I want to be with Katie."

. . . apparently not for long.

"I understand."

 _I wouldn't want to be here either._

"I went to the hearing today."

 _It was so bad, Emma. He doesn't feel any remorse._

 _He has a chance at mercy and he doesn't deserve it._

 _Of course, neither do I, I guess._

"I understand."

Her voice was quiet, tone even.

She wasn't mad, not anymore.

Which was somehow, worse.

He stared at the ceiling.

The silence and darkness wrapping its long, sneaky tendrils around them.

Trying to pull them apart even as they clung together.

Dylan tried to remember the last two years of happiness, of freedom.

Of relative . . .

" _Dylan, Dylan, can you grab the . . . the, uh . . ."_

 _"Mute button?"_

 _"I was going to say 'pacifier', but yes."_

. . . peace.

He couldn't.

It seemed like a dream, a wishful, delusional dream into which he had desperately plunged himself.

Like Norman.

 _No, I'm not crazy._

 _I've had - I do have - a family that loves me.._

Only . . .

"Emma?"

. . . with the events of the past several days coming to a head . . .

"I don't know. I don't know, Dylan. Let's not talk right now."

. . . he was deathly afraid . . .

 _I'm afraid you're going to leave me._

. . . he was losing them.

* * *

He didn't sleep much that night.

He lay there, staring up at the popcorned ceiling.

And thought.

He thought about Norma and Norman and all the mistakes he had made.

He thought about what he could have done differently to make things better now.

And he couldn't come up with anything plausible.

He had made his own mistakes, there was no denying that.

But they were free-thinking (well, Norma was) individuals and they had made choices without him.

And he couldn't Jedi mind trick them into doing what he thought they should do.

He had _tried_.

And failed.

And instead of working with Romero to commit Norman back into Pineview, he had run away.

 _Shit._

Dylan Massett lay there with his wife in his arms.

That wife that was, and always had been, such a rock to him.

So strong and caring and loving.

That wife that might be gone in the morning.

 _Emma, Emma, please don't leave me. You're all I have. You're all I want._

 _You and Katie._

 _Please don't go._

And Dylan Massett was very, very afraid.

He lay there with those dark, tangled thoughts worrying themselves up in his head.

He must've slept at some point, off and on.

Because his dark dreams were lonely and mournful.

And when he woke up and rolled over, his wife was leaving him.

* * *

"You leaving now?"

He made it a calm, casual question.

A question to which he already knew the eminent answer.

"Yeah, I'm going home where it's normal."

The long term answer still lay cloaked in unknown dread.

He stood up, walking around the bed, unconsciously fixing his shirt.

And standing facing . . .

 _Emma . . ._

. . . his wife.

The gulf between them was so huge and expansive, he could barely see her standing there on the other side.

Even thought it was only a few feet in reality.

 _Emma, I love you._

 _I love you and I'm not going to beg you this time._

Their literal distance lessen when he took the initiative and moved forward.

Trying to hug her, hands going around her stuff shoulders.

Bearded cheek slightly brushing the side of her sweet smelling hair.

Her arms went around him too.

In one of the emptiest hugs of his entire life.

" _Don't pressure me. For anything."_

"I understand."

Then, Emma, beautiful, intelligent, brave, loving Emma left.

Then she moved abruptly.

Her kiss on his cheek was a quick, heartless thing.

That made him feel more lost and alone than ever.

Because it was not Emma.

Not his Emma.

It was a stranger embrace.

"Bye."

Who left without saying . . .

 _I'll call you when I get there._

 _Please come home when you can._

 _I love you, Dylan._

. . . the words he wanted to hear most.

Like anyone starving to death their whole life, he had always eaten up her warm, welcome attention and care and love

And now she had removed that from him. And he was famished for it.

Weakened.

Afraid.

And alone.

 _Bye._

* * *

 **Okay, guys, I love Emma most of the time. I really do.**

 **And Dylan made some agregious mistakes, no doubt.**

 **But she just _left_ him. No lifeline, no hope except what he could scrounge up for himself.**

 **Dylan would NEVER have done to to her.**

 **He would have DIED for her without question.**

 **At this point, she is not worthy of Dylan's love and devotion.**

 **Because she ABANDONED him.**

 **Okay, I'm still mad but I'll stop my useless ranting.**


	86. Calm Before the Storm

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Calm Before the Storm

* * *

 _So let me get this straight._

 _You had Norman locked up in a "secure" facility._

 _Guarded by police officers with guns and pepper spray._

 _Romero, who was an escaped_ convict _, broke in, stole Norman, and now you can't find him._

 _And you want_ me _to help_ you _._

 _And you don't even_ care _about him!_

Dylan exploded then.

" _Nothing_ better happen to him!"

With anger.

"He's a _suspect_!"

With frustration.

"He hasn't even been _convicted_ yet!"

And sudden illogical, blind loyalty.

The he stormed out . . .

 _Have to do everything myself-_

. . . to go and figure out how to find Norman.

And bring him back.

* * *

He had stood on the edge of the frozen lake after Remo left.

There by the abandoned cannibis cabin.

Next to the half-built barn.

And looked out over the lake.

There, standing in almost the same place . . .

 _No, it was right over there._

. . . He had first kissed Emma.

 _Emma-_

Kissed with all his heart, right there.

Kissed her because he loved her.

He still loved her.

That hadn't changed for him.

Though he wasn't so sure . . .

"Yeah, Remo, it's great ."

. . . about her.

But now that she was gone, he was going to see this thing through to the end.

And hopefully go home . . .

 _Please, Emma, let me come home._

. . . to work things out with his wife.

See his baby girl.

And pick up the pieces of his life again.

* * *

He had the gun he had gotten from _hey, look at me, I almost got a legit job_ , Remo.

It was all good though.

He wished the guy well.

And it really didn't matter anyway.

Because he might be dead this time tomorrow.

Still, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.

He would stop Norman before he hurt anybody else.

Or he would die trying.

He had sat at the bar, trying to drink his way to courage.

 _Backsliding, backsliding, Emma would be disappointed._

But Emma had left him alone, hadn't told him she loved him.

So he didn't want to to think about that.

He'd got hit on.

"You look all alone."

 _You have no idea._

There had been a time he probably would have gone with her to whatever dark corner they needed.

And done whatever had come to him.

But now . . .

"Look, I'm just here to drink."

 _And not out of your prostitute bellybutton either._

He didn't even give it a second thought.

"And figure something out that is completely beyond my control."

 _I'm trying to decide whether to kill my brother or kill myself._

 _Drinking helps big decisions like that, right?_

And then Norman had called, invited him to dinner.

And Dylan having just apologised to a prostitute for _being_ a dick instead of _using_ his dick, had accepted.

And all the alcohol in his system had dried right the hell up.

* * *

He sat in his truck now, facing the possibility of his own death.

In front of the home his psychotic, murderous brother now waited in to have supperhim and 'Mother'.

He didn't know what he might be walking into exactly.

When Norman had called, he had been talking about Norma in the present tense.

As if they had _just_ moved in and not four years sgo.

As if he had forgotten _entirely_ that she had died.

Or wiped it right out.

The thought of his own death was upsetting, sure.

But he was so numb with all the shit that had gone down lately that he really didn't feel much.

He didn't want to leave Emma and Katie.

But that might be over anyway.

Emma had left, she hadn't said 'I love you'.

She _always_ said 'I love you'.

He figured if she did leave him, she wouldn't try to keep Katie from him.

But he didn't know for sure.

And that wasn't the kind of life he wanted to lead anyway.

Even though . . .

 _I should have done something more so long ago._

. . . he deserved it.

Still, he wanted to hear her voice one more time.

If it was the last time.

And tell her how much she meant to him.

Because here at the end, that was all that mattered.

So in the dark of his double cab Ford, Dylan Massett called Emma Decody.

She answered pretty quick.

"Hey, Dylan, what's happened?"

And he gave her the rundowm.

Norman.

Romero.

The phone call.

She didn't seem too happy he hadn't notified the sheriff.

Dylan tried to explain.

"He doesn't care about Norman. He'll end up dead."

 _He may end up dead by me but at least I'm gonna try first._

"I don't care! I don't care about Norman! I care about you!"

 _That's nice, Emma. Thanks._

"Dylan, you have a _child_."

And his voice wavered a bit . . .

"I _know_ I have a child."

 _Do you think I could ever forget about Katie even for a single second of my life, Emma?_

. . . as he responded.

"Do I have a wife?"

Trying to get her to answer the only question left for him.

She paused, didn't answer yes or no.

And because Emma had promised to always be honest with him, that meant she hadn't decided yet.

Or didn't want to tell him.

And he grew colder, emptier.

"Don't do this," came the desperate voice over the phone. "Just call the sheriff! Norman's dangerous!"

But Dylan was always set.

There was no one left to handle Norman but him.

"He's not dangerous to me."

Emma's voice was desperate and challenging.

"You sound like Norma."

 _Yeah, I know_.

And he tried again.

 _Tell me, Emma. Just say it and I'll believe you. Please._

"Tell me you love me, Emma."

Her voice came back hysterical and afraid.

And always so damn stubborn.

"No, I won't. I'm not going to arm you up so you can go in there and do something stupid!"

He smiled a little.

His Emma. She never gave an inch if she disagreed with it.

She wouldn't do something just because anyone told her too.

There was a good chance he was going to miss that, one way or another.

But that was in the future which was unknown to him.

And all he had now was to speak.

"I'll never love anyone else but you. You screwed me there, Emma Decody."

 _You're the sun and the moon and the whole wide world to me._

 _Forever._

 _I promise._

She didn't say so he quietly disconnected the call.

So he wouldn't have to hear her not say she loved him again.

Then Dylan Massett took the gun out of the bag.

 _He's my brother._

 _I won't use it unless I have to._

And prepared to face his brother.

* * *

 **I was honestly so furious when emma didn't tell Dylan she loved him I almost screamed at my TV!**


	87. Brother

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Brother

* * *

If there was a real, living, Hell, Dylan Massett was in it.

And right across from him, his baby brother.

Norman, all spruced up and spiffy and clean.

Bruised up face at the height of welcome and politeness.

The formerly trashed kitchen spic and span.

Yummy, filling, homey meal set out, hot and inviting.

Patsy Cline crooning on the antique record player.

And Norma, two years dead and moldering in the next room.

 _Oh god._

Dylan had vomited, thrown up, right onto the carpet at the sight of her.

A corpse.

His _mother's_ corpse.

Dressed. Makeup running.

 _Oh god, she's melting like an ice cream cake._

Hollowed eyed and slumped.

Sitting at the dinner table.

And Dylan was sure he was going to die.

Norman, of course, was more than compassionate.

"Poor Dylan. This has all been too much for you."

 _Oh god, Norma, oh god-_

"I'm sorry we moved without telling you."

 _What? Where_ are _you?_

"You just got overexcited. Here. Sit dowm."

 _No no no-_

"Sit down with Mother."

 _Are you fucking_ kidding _me?!_

Dylan, staggering and stumbling, finally found his voice.

"Norman, stop! Stop what you're doing!"

Following him almost blindly back into the kitchm.

"You're not living in the real world, you have to stop this!"

Dylan was hysterical and wild with terror and revulsion and fear.

"Norma is dead! This is her body! You brought her body here!"

Insane so insane Norman was more insane than Dylan could have ever dreamed.

"Well, I disagree."

 _Are you kidding? Are you serious?!_

"It's not something you can agree or disagree with!"

Tears were burning in his eyes, along with the stench of Norma Bates slightly moldering corpse and the hot, juicy smell of the pot roast sitting on the counter.

"She's dead, Norman!"

Norman bruised face pinched and he waved a finger warningly in the air.

"Stop it, Dylan! Stop saying that!"

As if he were trying to get him to clean his room or something.

"You have to deal with it! You have to come and you have to turn yourself in and we need to get you help!"

 _Emma, oh god, Emma, Emma-_

"That's what you want for me? To be shut up in some prison for the criminally insane and drugged out of my mind?!"

He was advancing now, advancing.

And Dylan was afraid and distraught.

And completely unhinged.

"I don't know what I want for you! What I really want is for something that can never happen, okay?!"

Confessing, now _he_ was the one that was confessing.

Falling apart.

"I want you to be happy, I want you to be well! I want Mom to be alive again!"

Voice choked with tears and regret and misery.

"I want both of you guys to meet my daughter! I want to have Christmases together, okay?!"

 _I just want to have a family! A real family that is okay! That's all I've ever wanted!_

If Norma were only alive and not rotting in the dining room, Dylan would gladly suffered through a million awkward holiday meals and get togethers.

Gladly turn the other cheek when Norma gave him shit for whatever it was she thought he had done.

"I want all these things to have never happened!"

 _Jesus, how are any of us supposed to live after this now?!_

But Norman had an answer for that too.

"Well, if you believe hard enough, you can make it that way."

"No, no, you can't!"

 _It's not Disney World, Norman!_

And he was upsetting Norman, pushing him too far, God knew what he was going to do if Dylan didn't ease up.

But he didn't care, he was the one completely out of his mind now because his dead mother was siting in the next room, and his baby brother was trying to make him believe that was okay.

"You can't."

Norman, tears standing in his eyes, turned away then.

And moved to the sink.

Maybe he had finally gotten through to him, say it was over and they could leave this house of horrors beh-

And then Norman turned around with the knife.

And Dylan found his gut _could_ twist and lurch further.

"What are you doing?"

"I can't let you take me away from her!"

And Norman was advancing again, raising the knife and Dylan pulled out the gun, feeling the metal cold and heavy in his hand.

KEep it down, keep it aimed at the floor-

"Put down the knife, Norman."

With bizarre unexpected flair, Norman held out his arms a little.

"This is how it ends, isn't it?"

And Dylan, crying and holding a loaded firearm against the onslaught of his insane little brother, reached out once more.

"It doesn't have to. Put the knife down."

Shuffling back, raising the gun, Norman raising the knife, edge glinting.

"I just want to be with her, Dylan."

 _He wants to die. He wants to die and he wants me to do it._

"Don't ask me to do this."

 _Please, how can I live if I do?_

And then Norman was lunging and Dylan's finger was reflexively squeezing the trigger-

And gun went off and it was deafening and Norman's body falling against him wasn't as heavy as it should be and the knife was wobbling in the wall next to Dylan's head.

And they were sliding to the floor and Dylan was crying and whimpering and apologising and holding his brother so tightly and protectively,

Barely able to breathe for the tears and snot cloying his sinuses.

"I'm sorry, Norman. I'm sorry."

And he was kissing his dying brother's head, holding him in a tight, loving embrace.

Crying freely and loudly as his brother's lifeblood drained from his rail-thin body.

And a strange small smile touched the corner of Norman's bloodied lips and he exhaled two simple words of relieved gratitude.

"Thank you."

* * *

 **Whoa. Just whoa. Right.**

 **Okay, the remaining chapters are original taking place after the series finale. And I really think they some of the best here.**

 **Please enjoy. :)**


	88. Mice and Men

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Mice And Men

* * *

"Dylan? Dylan, are you there? Dylan, what happened?"

Her voice was the thing that let him know he wasn't dead.

Her voice.

And the more distant sound of Katie babbling in the background.

And he couldn't speak.

"Dylan? Dylan?!"

Her voice was quiet, for fear of upsetting her infant daughter.

But her tone was desperate.

 _"Dylan?!"_

Like she was hanging onto a thread of a lifeline.

"I'm here."

His voice sounded empty and hollow to him.

Like he wasn't really there.

"Dylan, what happened?"

He opened his mouth and the words fell to his feet like dead, lifeless things.

"Norman's dead. I killed him."

Her shock and horror poured out of the phone as she gasped for air.

 _There go those lungs,_ he thought vaguely.

It was not the first time he'd had that thought.

Only the first time he hadn't felt anything while thinking it.

It wasn't that he didn't still love her and care about her.

It was that he just wasn't there.

"Oh my god. Are you hurt?"

Subjective question.

He was beyond hurt. He was in that numb void where your heart is beating in your chest.

Your blood pumping through your veins.

The air rushing in and out of your lungs.

But you can't feel it.

"No. I'm fine."

 _I want to come home._

 _Please, god, let me come home, Emma._

The sheriff was coming up the steps toward him.

That woman with the squinty blue eyes and pinched lips.

The one who hadn't stopped Romero from taking Norman.

"Emma, the sheriff is coming to talk to me," Dylan Massett relayed. "I have to go."

Then he hung up before he could listen to her not say 'I love you'.

Again.

"Who were you talking to?" The sheriff inquired.

Dylan put his phone in his pocket with a numb hand.

"My wife."

 _I hope._

Then Sheriff Jane Greene spoke.

"Dylan, I need you to come down to the station and tell me what happened here."

He stared at his hands, covered in Norman's blood.

"Okay."

* * *

Sheriff Greene was a very dedicated professional.

She wanted lots of details.

The good thing was, she listened intently for as long as he wanted to talk.

And Dylan told her everything.

His voice monotone, flat and dead.

He never got off topic. He never wavered.

He never ranted or paused or mixed up his words.

He didn't have the energy left to.

He did tell her everything.

From the time he had contacted Norman up to the moment he had dialed 911 with smell of gunsmoke and evening supper and stale death wafting through that creepy, crawly house.

Everything.

It took a while.

Unbeknownst to him, Emma was listening as well from the witness room, horror filled eyes transfixed on her husband's blank facade.

Tears streaming down her face.

Transplanted lungs steadily and faithfully inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide.

When he ran out of words and his bastardful tale was complete, she turned to the officer standing next to her and spoke only one sentence.

Five short words.

Five syllables.

"Can I see him, please?"

* * *

"Dylan?"

Dylan Massett looked up at the small town sheriff who had never dealt with any tragedy of this caliber in her short career.

He did not speak.

"This has been a terrible ordeal for you. I wish you'd come to me earlier. But I understand you were trying help your brother."

She drew a long, slow intake of breath.

 _What a cluster_ , she thought.

"Your wife is waiting to see you."

For the first time since he had walked out onto his dead mother's front porch, Dylan felt a tremor of emotion.

Hope, maybe.

Fear.

He looked at the sheriff.

"Emma?"

The grim-faced woman nodded, speaking a bit gentler now.

"Yes. Would you like to see her?"

He didnt even hesitate, only nodded. Scared to face her and unable to not to.

"Does she know?" he asked.

Greene nodded.

"She asked to listen. I hope that's okay."

Dylan nodded vaguely. He had never considered it not being okay.

It was Emma.

"Yes."

Greene eyed him carefully.

"Okay."

She crossed the room, knocked on the closed interrogation room door and it opened.

Emma rushed in, heading the few steps straight to Dylan.

Whose face pinched as he reached out to her beseechingly.

With one hand.

Only a few inches from the table where he shackled.

Emma stopped dead, a hand clasping his one outstretched one.

Then she turned to the sheriff, expression irrate and burning with fury.

"What is this? Why is he still handcuffed? Take this off of him, he didn't do anything _wrong_! He acted in self-defense, premeditated self-defense, maybe, but it's the only reason he's still _alive_ -"

Greene waved her off, face calm and collected.

"He's been through a lot of trauma. We just wanted to be sure he wasn't a threat to himself or others."

Emma flared.

"Well, he's not so take it _off_!"

Greene smirked a wan ghost of a smile and nodded.

"Sure you're not his lawyer?"

Emma didn't respond, seething.

Greene moved forward and unlatched Dylan's left wrist.

He immediately stood, wrapping both arms tight around Emma as she reached for him.

And tucked his face down into her neck.

Burying himself away from all the badness in the sweet smelling fall of her auburn hair.

She responded by pressing herself completely to him, arms wrapped around his neck, hands clenched into the fabric of his shirt.

"Emma, Emma, I'm sorry-"

Rambling, he was rambling. A muttered raw flood of rushed words he had already uttered once that night.

Dry and empty before.

Now pouring with emotion and heartbreak.

"I tried not to do it, Emma. I tried. But he wouldn't stop and he kept coming and he had a knife and Norma was rotting in the next room and-"

Sheriff Greene watched them, keen hearing picking up the broken man's renewed confession.

Apt brain reworking all the words, alerting no discrepancies, no falsehoods, no hidden codes.

And she watched them as they clung to each other, tears of relief and guilt and delayed response engulfing them both.

Emma was now comforting him, a quiet, tremulous surresh . . .

"Shhh, it's okay, it's over, shhh . . ."

And Greene thought about Carol waiting for her at home.

Probably curled up with a good book or her latest knitting.

And she wondered what her response would have been if all this had been her and not the Massett boy.

And then Jane Greene dropped her gaze away from them and quietly left the room.

As Dylan Massett shook himself to pieces in his wife's arms . . .

 _I'm sorry, Norman. I'm sorry. But I had to._

. . . and hoped his wife would let him come home when this was all over.

She did.

* * *

 **Yes, I skipped away from first person which is weird but I think Dylan has, in his own way, "gone away" a little here. Understandably.**

 **We'll be back to first person after this. :)**


	89. Hollow Man

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Hollow Man

* * *

Dylan's shirt was covered in blood.

Norman's blood from where he had shot his own brother.

And killed him.

It was drying now, metallic to his nose and tacky to his touch.

Dylan Massett hadn't ever wanted to kill his own brother.

Other than in that hormonal, familial, _jeez, he annoys the crap out of me, I'm gonna kill him_ way.

But in the real, eyes going dead, body convulsing, soul exhaling to the ethereal plane way, no.

Dylan had not wanted to kill his little brother.

But Norman had been crazy, insane.

Murderous.

And Dylan'd had two choices.

Kill Norman and stop the madness.

Or die.

And now here he was with his white shirt covered in blood.

His brother's blood.

And Emma was hugging him, pressing her pretty white blouse to his blood-stained clothing.

Covering herself in the blood.

Norman's blood.

The blood of his little brother.

Norman.

And-

"Dylan, look at your shirt. Touch it. There is no blood or any other bodily fluids on it. And what color is the shirt?"

He thought for a minute.

"Blue."

"Yes."

Dylan looked at his Seattle therapist.

And down at his shirt.

The blood was still there.

* * *

People of the Bates/Massett family of Wackos, Yakkos, and Dots did not ask for help.

They took care of things themselves.

Because they were an island unto themselves.

And nobody cared anyway.

It was why so many of them had gone insane.

Crazy.

Succumbing to drugs, alcohol.

Physical violence. Sexual deviance.

Murder.

They always took care of things themselves.

Until they couldn't.

Until they died.

But Dylan Massett . . .

"Emma? I think I need help."

. . . was going to break the cycle.

He was going to be different.

He was going to get better.

He was going to survive.

"I think so too, Dylan."

He was going to find a way.

* * *

It took him a long time to stop waking up in the middle of the night, scream of madness locked behind his grimacing lips.

He couldn't sleep.

And when he did, he saw Norma's dead, gray face filling his vision.

Her lifeless clouded eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall.

He hated the smell of hot food and he couldn't eat.

They survived on cold foods for a long time.

Thanks to Emma's patient, faithful efforts.

Still, he lost weight. Grew hollow and thin.

He got an ulcer and his mouth often felt sour and ill.

He became clumsy and sluggish and he couldn't think clearly.

Wanting to drink, wanting it so much.

Blackout oblivion.

But he was afraid if he did, he would never stop.

So he didn't.

His thoughts returned again and again.

To the night he had been forced to kill Norman.

And Norman, his little brother who was so stark raving mad he had, in a moment of clarity, tried to kill him . . .

"Thank you."

. . . just so he could be with his beloved mother again for all eternity.

Even though it had been a premeditated act of mercy as well as a reflexive . . .

 _Emma, Katie, no-_

. . . act of self preservation, it still haunted him deeply.

Dylan wanted to die.

He dreamed about dying, ending his suffering.

But he couldn't do that.

He couldn't give up and die.

He had to get better.

For Emma. For Katie.

For his family.

"How are the anti-anxiety meds working out, Dylan?"

"Better. I sweat more."

"Yes, is one of the possible side effects. Have you been drinking water?"

"Yeah. I pee alot."

And eventually, he did.

* * *

Growing stronger, little by little.

More stable in his mind.

Weaning off the drugs slowly, as doctor prescribed.

Clawing his way painstakingly out of his own much more real Pit of Despair.

Processing years and years of the unbelievable stress of being part of the insane ongoing Greek Tragedy that seemed to be the Bates/Massett Legacy of Batshit Crazy.

Culminating with the murder of his own brother.

Who had murdered God knew how many people.

And kept the body of his dead mother in his house for two years.

Amd now all that was now finally over.

On the outside.

And himself, what he had allowed to happen, out of misguided loyalty to a mentally ill brother.

And the brother who would do anything for him.

Dylan had enabled the monster.

And become something of a monster himself.

A monster who lied to his wife about her dead mother.

Who kept the lies for his codependent mother and mentally ill brother.

A monster who let a monster kill.

Until he himself killed that monster.

And was left to be the only monster alive.

To die a miserable monster.

Or live long enough to become a monster no more.

* * *

On the inside, Dylan Massett still fought the shadow on his soul, probably would forever. But he fought it with the best weapons he could ever wield. The light and happiness of the family who still somehow loved him.

And he fought everyday. Sometimes a little, sometimes alot.

Some days he was barely aware of the shadow at all.

He went to work, actually speaking to others without coercion or relative anxiety.

He came home to his family, played with his daufhger, talked with his wife.

Other days the shadow weighed him down, swathed him in a heavy cloak of depression and a yearning for the void.

On those days, he kept his head down at work, let people take the lead on projects and deals he would easily have snagged a year ago

On those dayss, he lay awake at night and listened to Emma breathe for him, as he felt he could not.

He watched Katie sleep, deep and peaceful for him, as he could not.

Promising himself he was going to be okay one day.

Not sure when, not sure how.

But that he would.

For Katie.

For Emma.

His family.

* * *

 **Sometimes it's a different kind of fight, isn't it?**


	90. Not Crazy, Getting Better

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Not Crazy, Getting Better

* * *

One day at the park he turned to his beautiful wife.

Emma who was watching Katie climb so very, very high on the jungle gym.

"Mommy! Mommy, look!"

Her smile was big and bright as her little daughter crowed and waved proudly.

"I see you, Katie! You're doing great!"

Dylan reached out and touched Emma's hand.

She tore her gaze away from the exuberant Katie and found her husband standing quietly.

"Hey," she asked mildly. "You okay?"

He smiled at her, a real smile.

With clear, unshaded eyes.

"Yeah, I am."

She nodded, starting to turn back to Katie.

Dylan stopped her, bringing her back to him.

"I'm really getting better, Emma. I'm going to be okay."

Emma's eyes were soft as she touched his face with a gentle hand.

"I know you are, Dylan. You're strong and you're working so hard at it. I'm proud of you."

They wrapped their arms around each other then, holding tight as long as they dared.

For . . .

"I love you, Emma."

"I love you, Dylan."

"Mommy! Daddy! Watch! Mommy! Daddy! Hey!"

. . . life, as life does, called.

* * *

They were coming back from it.

From the Ninth Circle of Hell.

They were getting there anyway.

Or at least he thought they were.

Until in the midst of playing with Katie, tickling, smooching, cuddling Katie.

Emma Decody Massett started crying.

Dylan, previously having felt pretty good that day, was reasonably alarmed.

"Emma?"

Reaching out to her, it actually feeling normal to reach out for her . . .

" _Don't pressure me. For anything."_

. . . again.

Rubbing her back, tucking an errand strand of wavy auburn hair out of her face.

"Emma, what is it?"

She shook her head mutely, tears flowing freely.

Absently touching her daughter's clothes in the comforting gesture Dylan himself knew all too well.

"Emma?!"

She swiped at her tears with her fingers . . .

". . . _ridiculous when I cry."_

. . . and finally spoke, gulping air as she went.

"I've been thinking about it."

 _Oh shit, she's going to divorce me. And I thought we were doing so much better._

"And I shouldn't have left you."

 _Huh? Emma, you're right-_

 _Oh._

"Norman killing my mom wasn't your fault and you needed me and I abandoned you."

Dylan felt the strange shifting open of his brain to a new concept.

Emma had done something wrong, something bad.

Emma had hurt him.

Hurt him when she shouldn't have.

He had never allowed himself to feel anger towards her before in regard to what had happened in White Pine Bay.

Her abandoning him, cutting him off from his only lifeline, her and Katie.

He had only ever accepted that he had deserved it.

And now, something suffocating and strangling was releasing it's suffocating grip from his wounded and scarred heart.

Freeing him.

Just a little more.

Much like when she had freed him from the shame of being a child of rape and incest.

Her words were flooding out of her now.

"I'm so sorry, Dylan. I'm so sorry. You deserved someone to stick by your side. Not freak out and run away."

An outpouring of regret.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

He was not worthless.

He never had been.

Dylan Brian Massett was a decent human being who deserved to be stuck by and supported.

Through the darkest of times.

Because even though he had lied and he had been selfish, that had not make him a bad person.

Only a desperate one . . .

 _I want to be with Emma._

 _She's a good person._

 _I'm better when I'm with her. I feel better when I'm with her._

. . . at the time.

 _Oh._

"Yeah, yeah, sure, Emma," he replied, working past the lump of healing pain in his throat. It's okay. I love you."

She drew back, dark eyes searching him.

Her face pinched a little then, as if his words hurt even as they healed.

"I love you, too, Dylan."

And her tears of shame eventually dried up.

* * *

The trauma Dylan Massett had endured had not taken his love for his wife.

He loved her deepest and completely, as much as one human being could healthfully love another.

But the experience had, for nearly a year, taken his ability to express his physical love.

She had surely been hurt by his gentle rebuffs when he had pulled away from her wanting kisses, her needful caresses.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I love you. But . . . I can't. Not yet. I . . . I'm sorry."

He didn't blame her for anything, not even for abandoning him in his worst hour of need.

For she had come back, had forgiven and accepted him again, after all he had done and allowed to happen.

And he wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and make love to her again.

But his depression had been so complete, so absolute, that part of him didn't physically work.

And she would smile sadly, hug him tight.

"It's okay. I understand. I'll be here, it's okay."

Over and over she said that. Night after night.

Until she eventually simply kissed him sweetly and supportively.

And didn't offer herself anymore.

"I'm here, it's okay. I'm here."

So they slept in the same bed, shared the same warmth.

Even laying in the pillows and blankets, wrapped in each other's arms, heartbeats synchronizing as one.

Taking part in a chaste, accepting, healing companionship.

* * *

Finally, one night, months after he finally left White Pine Bay forever, after months of self imposed isolation, months after he finally asked for help, the night after she had apologized for abandoning him, he took another step.

They lay there peaceful and enduring.

Drifting toward sleep at the end of a new day.

Dylan shifted

Felt Emma's fingers brush reassuringly against his cheek.

Drowsily, he took hold of them, brushing them against his lips.

Kissing them sweetly.

She murmured something kind and loving.

And he, feeling his body awaken in the warmth of spring from his dark, empty winter, reached out for her.

 _Emma . . ._

And he found her in the dark.

Kissed her eyes, her nose, her cheeks.

Her lips.

Softly, gently.

Until she opened her mouth to his.

And he went.

They undressed each other a little at a time, sleeping clothes slipping quietly to the floor.

It was a gentle, loving, and slow coupling.

More an easy, unfettered return to physical love than wild, passionate free for all.

He lost himself in her and let everything else in the world go away.

And she let him, welcomed him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and holding him tight.

His release came after only a few minutes and he buried his face in her neck, tears light upon his cheeks.

He was fully home then, home to his wife who loved him and accepted him now without reservation.

When he could speak, it was a surreash of grateful breath, nothing more.

"I missed you, Emma. I'm sorry I went away. I love you so much."

"I love you too, Dylan. Always."

* * *

 **Yes, Emma needed to apologize.**


	91. No Monsters

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

No Monsters

* * *

Their first marriage, the one that lasted just a little over a year, was happy and full of light and love.

And one great big fat lie that whispered between them, unbeknownst to Emma.

It ate at Dylan, like a hidden cancer he kept ignoring, hoping it would go away. Forcing himself to carry the burden of his brother in silence and fear.

Because to let it out might mean hurting Emma. Or losing her altogether.

Their second marriage lasted only days. Full of anger, resentment, uncertainty and fear. With that great, big, fat lie finslly oit in the open, screaming at the top of its lungs and right in their faces all the time.

The third marriage lasted several months and was fragile and brittle, like thin ice in the middle of a deep, dark lake. Ready to swallow them up if it cracked under the weight of the aftermath of the directly related events of the second marriage.

Their fourth marriage was the best. It was much like the first. Except they had absolutely no secrets between them. None. It was the freest. The most loving and trusting and true. And lasted for nearly sixteen wonderfully long years.

And Dylan Brian Massett was truly happy. Finally free. And oh so very grateful.

 _I love you, Emma._

 _I love you, Katie._

 _I love you both so much._

* * *

There was this children's music video.

'Little Baby Bum.'

 _Seriously_ , he had laughingly challenged Emma. That's _the name of it?_

 _Well, yeah,_ she had returned. _'Cause baby bottoms are cute and the songs are cute._

 _Isn't that, right, Katie,_ she had cooed.

And Katie had gurgled.

 _Yes, it is, that's right._

And bemused Daddy Dylan had been overriden.

He hadn't minded.

So the show consisted of little two minute baby songs.

Some boppy, some quiet and soothing.

And it _was_ cute.

Some of the songs he knew.

'. . . bus go 'round and 'round . . ."

Some he did not.

" . . . eating sugar?' 'No, Papa.' Telling . . ."

But there was one in particular that got stuck in his head.

". . . you, boo . . ."

Dylan Massett really liked it.

It made him feel free, reminding him of where he had come from.

And where he was now, what could be now.

He hummed it.

". . . hiding under there?"

He tapped his fingers to it.

". . . live in our home . . ."

He even found himself singing it to Katie as he rocked her gently in his arms.

". . . only me and my family . . ."

Which gave Emma, on her way to their bedroom for a nap . . .

"Is that the 'No Monsters' song, Dylan?"

. . . pause.

He was only a little sheepish.

"Yeah."

Emma pressed her lips together in an amused but enchanted smile.

"Oh. That's so sweet."

He grinned and shrugged.

"Yeah."

And she kissed him and went on her way.

He watched her with a content little smile on his face.

He didn't know if she understood the significance of that song.

What it meant to him.

But really . . .

"Hey, you, boo . . ."

. . . it didn't matter.

" . . . hear that sound . . ."

He did.

". . . that I've found . . ."

He might tell her some time.

"There are no monsters that live in our home . . ."

But for now, he just kissed his tiny daughter's forehead.

"There's only me and my family that live in our home . . ."

And kept quietly singing.

"There are no monsters that live here . . ."

* * *

 **Little Baby Bum and all the songs therein are real and currently on Netflix.**

 **And just as cute as I said.**

 **You know, it did occur to me that when we see their little family at the end, it might be all a lie concocted by Dylan's now broken-from-having-to-kill-his-brother brain. A desperate delusion. Maybe he's the one in Pineview now. Maybe he's the final victim of this sordid tale. Emma sitting with him on visiting days, trying to figure out how she's going to explain all this to her daughter, not lie and not hide the truth.**

 **But that ending is too dark, too miserable, too terrible.**

 **And this is my damn story and I** ** _believe_** **in Emma and Dylan, which I will expound upon later.**

 **And so I'm going with goodness and real life with all its ups and downs and happinesses and sadnesses.**

 **And that's my rant. ;)**

 **One more chapter to go. And we'll let them be.**


	92. Immortal

I do not own Bates Motel.

But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.

Yeah, Whatever

Immortal

* * *

When you're happy, you feel immortal.

Like you can handle anything.

And Emma Decody Massett's life was very happy.

Ten years.

That was the top life expectancy for Emma's new lungs.

Ten years.

Not long.

Not long at all.

 _Don't think about it,_ she said.

 _We could die in a freak tomato truck accident tomorrow._

 _Or the world could end._

 _Or,_ she'd muse, _I could beat the odds and outlive your brooding ass._

Then she'd kiss him, press those sweet, soft lips to his.

And breaking up the kiss, wrap him in a surprisingly strong hug.

Her lips close to his ear.

And whisper her tear-husky voice into his fearful mind as he closed his eyes against it.

"Don't think about that right now. Just think about today. Just think about us, our family. I love you."

And he never wanted to let her go.

"I love you too, Emma."

* * *

There were birthdays and anniversaries.

Vacations and holidays.

Illnesses and healthy, happy days in the sun.

They celebrated and they struggled.

Long quiet discussions. Stormy fights.

Though none as bad as what they had experienced during Norman's final days in White Pine Day.

They, in short, simply lived.

The best they could.

Until their time ran out.

Unsurprisingly, Emma time ran out first.

Only seventeen percent of all lung transplants survive ten years.

Emma beat that by another five years.

And when she did begin to exhibit signs of failure, she was thirty-three years old.

Dylan was thirty-seven.

And Katie was fifteen.

It didn't happen all at once.

It was a slow process.

She got respiratory illnesses more often, with increasing severity.

Her energy waned and a dull ache resided in her chest.

She spoke to her doctors about it during her visits.

They took notes, ran tests.

And confirmed the worst.

She went home and told Dylan.

And he bit down on his tears as they held each other through the first of many, long, dark nights.

No one could tell them how much longer she had.

No one could predict that she, with her determined spirit and stubborn willpower, would live another five years.

In and out of hospitals.

On and off of at home oxygen tanks.

Weekly, daily respiratory therapies.

Increased immunosuppressants striking her with an array of complicated, trying symptoms and side illness that she for the most part bore the brunt of with a grace that be wondered him.

And those few times when she did fail and falter, he loved her even more strongly throughout.

As she would have done him.

Emma Decody Massett was strong and determined and surrounded by the fierce abiding love of her family.

Her husband, whom she had stood by during the worst of times.

Her daughter, young and inexperienced in the hard, bitter ways of life.

But taught to be kind and giving by her parents who had loved and raised her together.

Her father, the aging Will, now in his late sixties, alongside his stable, supportive wife who was completely unlike Audrey in every way.

They gathered around her when she let them.

Ventured forth at her insistence.

And loved her always as she had loved them.

Loved them.

She did.

As much as she could.

As fully as she could.

As proudly and strongly as she could.

From the bleachers at the basketball games.

And the lawn at the graduation ceremony.

The company dinners honoring well respected, hard working employees.

In bed with her husband, running her fingers through his slightly thinning hair as they physically revived their love for each other again and again as they could.

They lived and loved and laughed and cried.

And eventually, she died.

It happened on a Thursday.

Intensive care.

Three days prior, Will and Katie had just departed, kissing and hugging their daily goodbyes.

Katie staying with her grandfather and Judith while Dylan, on temporary leave from work, haunted the halls of the the hospital.

And Emma, eyes sunken orbs in her hollow face, had gestured to Dylan.

"Come up here with me."

Carefully, oh so carefully, he transversed the wires and tubes and cords that were maintaining his wife's ailing physical form.

And wrapped her up in his arms as best as he could.

"Hey."

"Hey."

She didn't have the air to waste, nor the time.

And so she didn't.

"I love you, Dylan."

"I love you too, Emma."

Clinging to him, her bravery cracking in the face of imminently approaching Death.

"I've been so happy with you-"

"Emma . . . don't . . ."

"No, let me say this."

She paused, working to breathe.

"And then she spoke again, her voice a husky murmur only the two of them could hear.

"I've been so happy with you and our daughter is so wonderful. I never expected any of this and I'm so grateful it was you I shared it with."

She stopped and he thought she was done.

But she wasn't. Not Emma.

"Stay strong for Katie, okay? She needs her dad. Don't walk away from her. Don't fade away because you're hurting too much. But let her go when it's time so she doesn't . . ."

 _Turn out like Norman._

". . . feel bad for growing up and going out on her own."

Emma stopped again and Dylan could feel her heart laboring, her lungs wheezing.

He tried to heal it. With his willpower.

And his love.

But he was only a man.

A simple man.

". . . a good man," she was saying. "You're a good man and I'm so proud of you and how far you've come."

 _Because of you,_ he tried to say. _You made me want to be better._

"Don't stay alone if you don't want to."

 _Are you crazy?_

"But don't be with someone just to not be alone."

"Emma, how can you say that?" he questioned, voice broken. "There could never be anybody else for me but you. You're everything to me."

She smiled, weak and trembling.

But still strong in her eyes and soul.

"I know. I just want you to know . . . it's okay."

His tears were hot and fast.

And he could not bear to face the future alone without her. Not yet.

"I love you, Emma. I'll always love you."

"I love you too, Dylan. So much."

They lay cradled together for a long span of time.

And when Dylan Massett finally moved, she did not.

She had, nestled in the comforting cradle of her husband's arms, pouring out her love and remaining strength to him, slipped into a coma.

From which she would never awaken.

He stayed by her bedside as much as they the doctors and nurses would let him.

Holding her hand.

Reading to her.

Loving her.

Others came and went.

Dylan stayed on.

The doctors said she was out of pain.

Said that she would slip away in her own time.

And three days later, she did.

The Do Not Resuscitate directive made them let her go.

And Dylan Massett laid his head upon his wife's cooling hand.

And cried until he was empty.

Then he cried some more.

 _I love you, Emma._

 _I will always love you._

 _Thank you for saving me._

And then he got up and as per his beloved wife's commandment, tried to learn how to live life without her.

Until the day when they could be reunited once more.

 _Hey._

 _Hey._

 _It's been a while._

 _Yeah._

 _What'd I miss?_

* * *

 ***cues 'Gone, Gone, Gone' by Philip Philips and ugly sobbing***

 **Here's the thing, gentle readers. I _believe_ in Dylan and Emma. I believe they were okay after a while. I believe they were a happy family and raised Katie together well. Because they wanted it and worked together to make it happen.**

 **Because with the exception of Britishness, CF, drug dealing and copious amounts of murder (just a little unconfirmed murder and several occasions of near), my husband and I have many similarities to them.**

 **Oh but I'm totally gonna outlive him by, like, 100 years. ;)**

 **And we're okay. So Dylan and Emma can be too.**

 **Which is why I wrote this.**

 **Your name is not Dylan and you don't drive a truck the size of Texas, but you are mine and I love you deeply. And I'm so proud of you and me and us. I love you.**

 **Thanks for your time and consideration, gentle readers.**

 **Happy reading of whatever. :)**


	93. Additional Author's Note

**Hey, Lana Brown, thanks for reviewing so much. You were extremely dedicated. :)**

 **And, yes, Emma died. I researched it and it's a very likely outcome based on her situation.**

 **Dylan did die eventually too. When his time came. Not from suicide. But from the end of life.**

 **That's life. People live. People die.**

 **Which** ** _is_** **the point of the story. Living while you've got it and doing the best you can.**

 **So thanks for reading, sweetie.**

 **See the light, be the light, and keep going.**

 **Happy reading, Lana Brown!**


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